


No End

by Malind



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Bondage and Discipline, Death, Dysfunctional Relationships, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Heavy Angst, Incest, M/M, Murder, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Prostitution, Reincarnation, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-18 07:43:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5907598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malind/pseuds/Malind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After fifty years of nightmares, regrets, and no way out, a single soul among millions is an ex-Turk's only hope for peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No End

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this well before FFVII: Advent Children and Dirge of Cerberus came out. So here, as with the end of FFVII, Sephiroth is quite dead. I've written an OC as a reincarnation. So this is technically a Vincent/OC-Sephiroth-Reincarnation pairing....
> 
> This took around 12 years to write with huge breaks in between chapters (I started it before 8/22/2002). This story has 11 chapters.
> 
> The Final Fantasy VII universe and characters are owned by Square Enix. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

**Chapter 1: Just Watch the Movie**

  

~~You must take care of him, Vincent. You must~~

"Fuck." A slim hand slammed the coffee mug onto the table. The rickety old thing groaned under the harsh treatment, and gave the gunman the tiniest bit of satisfaction. A corner of his mouth curled up dryly. It was either torture the ancient wood, or give some undeserving soul an unwanted and excruciating death. Besides, the old table needed to be put out of its misery. Too bad he didn't want to waste money replacing it, or he would have done it long before.

The back of his metal claw rubbed at the sleep still aching his eyes, which in itself pained them, but the memory of her voice, so engrained in his mind, just wouldn't go away:

~~You must find him!~~

Vincent gripped the mug all the tighter. "Take care of -him-? Find who, damn it?! Do you know how many men are out there?!"

The dream, well, nightmare had been the same: the misery in Lucrecia's eyes, her hands outstretched like two claws, begging him to come closer yet to keep his distance, her curved lips pulled tight as she mindlessly hammered out her plea for Sephiroth--their only child--over and over and over. . .

Vincent downed the rest of the room-temperature coffee and slammed it back onto the table. Crimson eyes glared at the rifle next to his plate. Nearly twenty years earlier, it had fired one of the final blows into a beautiful, yet monstrous man; an angel bent on destroying them all. He didn't even want to touch the cool metal, convinced that, even after two decades, when he pulled his fingers away, blood would drip from the pale skin.

His tired gaze dropped to his sole hand resting on the table and traced along the exaggerated veins and unnatural paleness from the lack of decent circulation. He flexed his grip on the mug. The flesh hadn't aged a day since he was twenty-seven. "These nightmares are never going to end, are they? You'll never leave me in peace." He snorted although he felt more like throwing the coffee mug across the room. Or better yet, out the lone cracked window that barely allowed any light to stream into the dingy air. Maybe as an added bonus it would even clunk the head of a pedestrian innocently walking along the sidewalk a couple of stories below. Would the survivors call the police? Would the men in blue come running up the stairs, clubs in hand? Surely that would be satisfying: Pain to forget, whether his own or another's.

Ah, simple pleasures.

He sighed then. Those thoughts were getting him nowhere. "Go ahead, Lucrecia, tell me I don't deserve peace. I'd be the last to deny it."

It seemed as though he went through that same line of thinking every morning, all after a good dosing of nightmare-filled sleep. The ghost of his dead lover, Lucrecia, haunted his dreams. And that was meant literally. Her invasion had started just weeks after their son's death. With the murders, the accusations, the demons cursing his body, on top of the nightmares he'd had for over thirty years, he'd almost gone mad. Or had he already? Then again, sanity had probably left him the moment the scientist's divine chocolate-colored eyes were engraved into the ex-Turk's brain at first glance.

At first he had denied Lucrecia's presence in his sleeping mind. He had fought every single one of her pleas for the man that she was suddenly declaring was his. He still fought now, but he no longer denied it was her soul seeking retribution for both of their sins.

But how could she expect him to take care of Sephiroth now, his mind hissed. He had willingly aided in killing their child. Didn't she understand that just the mere thought, of the man's pale face hidden behind curtains of silver hair, only made him ache?

He knew that the torturous ritual would never end, not if he couldn't find Sephiroth to put her soul to rest. Not even by his own hand would it end. He'd tried. Several times.

With a growl, the raven-haired man picked the rifle up unceremoniously, shoved his chair away, and stumbled upright. The gun was thrust into the holder at his back, before the same hand straightened his cloak.

~~Vincent, our son - ~~

"Gods, just shut-up!" He blurted out into the empty room. Only silence came back to him, as the morning sun brought a light breeze to rap against the window. If only. . . If only she'd just let me forget, his mind whispered. He raked his metal claw through his hair.

"Give me more of a description, Lucrecia, and I may be able to help you out. Until then, just. . . just stay out of my dreams." He had truly meant to leave it at that, but couldn't help himself as he added spitefully, "Or just come back to this forsaken hell and do it yourself!"

He could almost hear her sobbing. No, this would never end.

Not sparing a glance to his surroundings, he stalked forward and out of the door of his decrepit apartment. The hallways were thankfully bare of other tenants as he moved, almost without a sound, down the long hallway and stairs. One of the first to be built in Rocket Town, the building was older than his seventy-seven years. It showed. Every wall pealed with paint, revealing the decaying wood behind. A thick coating of dust provided welcome insulation, as there was no true insulation in the walls. And winters in Rocket Town tended to get cold. The floor boards creaked. Every shadow and patch on the walls whispered secrets. The building had a history if someone wanted to pry.

Trudging down the last few steps, and absently noting the appreciative set of eyes that groped his every movement, he had learned long ago that there was no need to pry. At least not for him. The old woman would tell him anything that suited his fancy, as long as he was willing to. . . oblige her.

"I sure hope you'll be knocking off a couple of Velchers this time. Those gods-awful Crown Lances you keep bringing back are giving me the shits." If Loris was nothing else, she was blunt.

Vincent coughed lightly, crossing his arms over his chest, and looked through thick lashes at the woman reclining on the couch. "Ma'am, those are what the townspeople complain about. They disrupt the fishing market and cause general -"

"You want cheaper rent or not, boy," Loris crowed with a raised brow that still managed to scowl somehow. The gunman looked to his feet. There was no point in arguing with her or he'd be there for hours. And he still wouldn't win. She snorted then, although it sounded more like a hack, and scolded, "Well then, put up with an old woman's bitching, and get me something that won't send me to the bathroom every five minutes."

There was no stopping his smirk. To be honest, he didn't 'put up with' her for the cheaper rent. He did it since she was the only person who treated him as if he were actually human. Perhaps she knew that, and that was why she crooked her mouth into a sneer whenever he paraded into the room. Sure, she was several years younger than himself, but she was nonetheless the closest thing he had to a mother. And a friend.

"Not that I need either," he muttered with a humorless snort.

"Eh?" The old woman blurted out as she craned her head toward him. He shook his head once in dismissal, raven hair swinging over his face. Loris sighed throatily. "Ah, cheer up, boy. The world ended twenty years ago, not tomorrow."

Vincent tried his best not to cringe, but as she frowned, he knew he hadn't succeeded. That was enough motherly love for one day. He stalked toward the door, adding over his shoulder, "Yes, you're right. It did."

Everything had ended twenty years prior, the day he had willingly took the life of his only child. It didn't matter now that, even with his soul screaming the truth at him, he hadn't confessed to the people around him, even to himself, that Sephiroth was from his body, that -everything- was his fault. At the time, when so much had been at stake, it had been too much to bear.

Now - now he was living with every pain and regret each day of his life.

The man stepped outside and was at once bombarded with the early-morning sounds of commuters getting to work. Actually the townspeople were really city-people. Rocket Town had evolved and expanded with each new generation. The town had managed to become the new Midgar, attracting both a good portion of the destroyed city's population, and many new residents who wanted some action. The city was no longer an innocent, shut-in, inbred community. It had expanded to the coast line, as well as east, south, and west. -Anything- a person's deprived mind and full-purse could possibly want was laid out like a buffet. If Vincent had stayed away for the previous twenty years, he wouldn't have recognized the place. Cid was surely cursing from his grave.

Lips pursed slightly at the thought of his friend and the damnable cigarettes he stubbornly wouldn't to give up, but Vincent refused to dwell on it. Cid had been a grown man, and unlike the gunman, wouldn't have lived forever, no matter his habits. Nonetheless, had he been able to admit to himself back then that his friend -would- truly die one day, Vincent would have held a cigarette bonfire, Cid leaping and cursing about like a creature out of a fairy tale, just to hear his friend's bitchy voice today.

What was even more agonizing than an eternity of putting up with himself, was defenselessly watching the people he cared for die.

After a step forward, Vincent let the crowd wash him down the street. Trying in vain to convince himself that what he felt was dry amusement, most people kept an unconscious distance from him. Everyone knew who he was or had at least heard of him. Who could miss his glowing crimson eyes or claw?

Glowing eyes in general were becoming rarer with every passing year. The SOLDIER program no longer existed. Reeve had taken the seat of the president, and with minimal direction, had pretty much given the people free rein to rebuild their lives, and discover new technologies to replace Mako energy. An invention of Cid and his wife, the windmills to the east supplied the city with a good portion of its energy.

Vincent walked block after block after block, until it was late morning. The beach spread out before him. Boats, ships, and countless people paraded about, accomplishing their tasks for the day. He himself was on patrol via the payroll of the city.

And the march began. . .

By the end of the day, the ex-Turk wondered why yesterday had even bothered turning into today. There wasn't a single moment that he could recall. Boring. Draining. Hot. What a life.

Long strides took him back to the locker room where he picked up his cloak. His attire hadn't changed much in twenty years. Black pants and boots clutched at his legs. His red cloak and bandanna were now antiques. The only real difference was that he had invested in several form fitting vests for hot days such as his one. In place of sleeves, he wore a wide gold bangle on his upper un-clawed arm, and a few on his fingers, fitted to avoid conflict with pulling the trigger. The claw on his other arm was enough of an ornamentation to not bother dressing up that side.

The gunman headed back into the crowd. Its flow was almost relaxing. But the heat of the bodies around him only added to the heat of his own skin. Not to mention, the smell of sweat and dirt was nearly overwhelming. Ah, but he was used to that. It just reminded him that they and he himself had survived another day.

Once he hit the market, a leathered old face popped into his thoughts right on que and he cringed slightly. He glanced around, which was easy considering he was taller than most, and spotted the meat shop he occasionally visited. The crowd mercifully parted for him as he made his way sideways and across the street.

The small shack of a building housed some of the best meat in Rocket Town. The man was an excellent butcher, cutting the slabs to perfection and using only the best of the stock. Vincent often wondered why the man stayed in the ancient shop. Surely he had the money to move to a better location. Perhaps the man just merely loved his little shop. In the end, it didn't matter, as Vincent loved his store too. It was the only place he gave his business.

The butcher turned away from a customer and to him, wiping his hands on a rag. "What'cha need, Sir?"

"Something for Loris. You know her likes," Vincent said with a sigh, eyeing the various meats for something for himself.

"Aye." The man scowled at him a little suspiciously, although Vincent could tell that it was in good humor and smirked. The other's gruff voice continued, "I've been hearin' the problems you've been causin' her. Many times. You must take care on an elder's digestive track, dear Sir."

Vincent snorted. "Yea, well, up until two weeks ago, Crowns were her favorite dish."

"Take heed: it don't matter," the man said with a chuckle. "I'll get her somethin' nice. Let me know if anything catches your eye."

A few minutes later, the gunman had several full bags of packaged meat, a couple with Velcher Task cuts, and much lighter pockets.

When he stepped foot back into the apartment building, Loris was still seated where she always was. She was relined out on the plush coach, snoozing up something fierce. Every snore made the tall man cringe as he made his way up to her. He wasn't sure whether or not he -wanted- to wake her up. One long drawn out snore made up his mind for him. He bent over and set the bag on the ground. With her bathroom habits, she'd be up in a half an hour or less and would find it there. He was about to stand back up when an ancient hand grabbed his metal wrist. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was surprised the woman had grabbed him there. There wasn't a single other person who would have dared.

"Boy, you just going to let me snore my life away?"

His jaw dropped slightly, not sure what to say, as they took in each other's present disposition.

She grinned then, and petted the claw. "You come on inside, and I'll fix you something nice."

Vincent cleared his throat. He knew that grin and wasn't about to step foot inside of her apartment. If he did, he wouldn't leave until morning. The woman had a surprising amount of stamina when she willed herself to do more than just survive.

"Ma'am, forgive me, but I already have plans. Maybe next week."

Loris snorted. "Yea, sure. You've said that for the past few hundred weeks." Wrinkled eyes looked him over for a moment, before she patted him once more and she sighed out, "Go on. Get out before I lock the security doors and chain ya to my bed."

Vincent ignored the teasing and instead absentmindedly straightened out her house coat. "Fix yourself something nice, Loris. I got anything you could possibly want right here." He shifted a glance over her unnaturally pale face and almost couldn't hold back a sob. One day, she would be gone too. "Then rest up, dear. Another day tomorrow."

"Boy, the last thing I need is more rest."

He laid a hand on her forehead and kissed her lips. "Rest."

Then he was up and stalking back out the door, an immortal running away from unavoidable, unstoppable death.

Vincent stormed down block after block. Eventually, thankfully, he arrived at the racier part of town. It was a newer section, which actually wasn't a bad thing since it meant there wasn't piss and puck in every alley way, and cum on every bathroom wall. The owners did their best to keep their property looking clean enough to dare enter. But after the buildings were sold and resold, eventually the area would be a scary place to look for one's next fix.

There was only one place he could drown out everything, even if only for a few self-indulgent minutes. The theater he stopped in front of was one he frequented, one of many. It was also usually the least busy as the flicks they showed were older ones.

Barely clad men and woman graced every poster that was tacked across the length of the front. Men on men. Women on women. Women on men. As well as other various arrangements of sodomy, domination, and bestiality.

The gunman greeted the familiar face at the window, lost a little more money, and quickly found himself inside of the large complex. Various theaters and waiting rooms--rooms which the staff seldom visited to keep them private--were scattered about. It was enough of a mess to get lost in, but Vincent knew where he was headed.

The theater itself was a smaller room. It was ornamented with old day themes and only showed older gay porn flicks, which were better than the newer atrocities. Of course, any person below twenty-five would have disagreed with him. To top it off, the room was blessedly free of cluttering bodies. Vincent smiled comfortably for the first time that day. Yep, the best seat in town.

He walked to the middle, removed his scabbard and the weapon inside, reclining it on the seat next to him, pushed down his seat flap, and shrugged into the cushioned wood. The movie was one he had seen on occasion. It wasn't the most memorable, but it was worth a session of masturbation. Within minutes, he had a demanding bulge running partially down his leg. He reached out and squeezed it. Pure, simple pleasure shot through him. He bit his lower lip to hold back a groan, and was about to explore the length more, when the door to the theater suddenly burst open and at least two laughing men came into the room. Vincent growled, sinking lower into his seat. The laughing then turned to whispers and Vincent suddenly got the distinct feeling he was in the presence of teenagers.

"Gods, help me. This is just what I needed to end a 'perfect' day," he mumbled, and tried to find a bit more space to sink into.

Much to his annoyance, out of the corner of his eye, he watched the group of two definite teenagers sit in the side isle, but along the same row. He could feel their eyes on him.

"Just watch the movie. Just watch the fucking movie, kids," Vincent hissed under his breath.

One boy sunk back into his seat. Vincent almost thought that the one-sided staring match was over, when the other boy suddenly stood up and actually walked directly over to him!

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, just go away. Just bloody go away. Can't a man jack himself off in peace?" The words were once again mumbled, unheard over the moans and pants coming from the speakers.

Vincent was about to proclaim himself a little louder when a rather shapely backside shimmied its way in front of him and to the seat on the other side. That was not what the ex-Turk had needed to see at that moment. The sexy lips that curved with an unhindered smile certainly weren't helping his resolve either, as Vincent looked to the man.

"Hi there."

Vincent rolled his eyes. The sexiness vanished as he reminded himself that the boy couldn't have been any more than twenty.

"My friend and I saw you outside. We were heading to the theater across the street, but you were just too appealing to us." Without warning, the boy reached out a hand and caressed fingernails along the hard length at Vincent's groin. The gunman sucked in his breath. "I can take care of this for you, if you don't mind."

The awful pleasure of his touch was making the older man shudder so much that he gripped the hand to still its motions, but he couldn't find the urge to pull it away. This wasn't the first time he'd had an affair in a theater. But a minute before, he'd wanted the simple pleasures of masturbation.

But then the raven-haired man shrugged mentally, as he acknowledged that he'd never been one to hastily throw out an offer from a willing, beautiful man.

Grinning, the boy clearly caught on to the fact and used his other hand to take down Vincent's zipper and pull out his erection. The older man let the other man's hand go, dropping his own to his side, as his most-likely one-time lover instantly leaned over and worked on the task at hand. He shuddered, fighting to keep back a moan, as the teenager's noisy slurps and suckles became all the more enthusiastic. His head lulled back. Bangs tickled his face as it then rolled to the side.

Then crimson eyes widened. His body jerked. "Holy shit!"

Still gripping the cock solidly, the boy yanked his head up and followed Vincent's gaze. Then he laughed lightly. "He wants to watch. You don't mind, do you?"

He didn't give the gunman any time to reply, instantly continuing his previous marvelous attentions. Vincent gasped and bit his bottom lip. The boy in the distance had looked down with his exclamation, which had only managed to make Vincent curious as to what exactly these two were trying to accomplish. His cock hit the back of the boy's throat. His eyes half-lidded. Right then though, he couldn't have cared less what their deviant minds were planning since his own thoughts were probably just as bad.

While the red-haired boy, bringing him to a quick climax, was utterly sexy and could have been one of the models on the posters lacing the front of the building, this other boy, whose eyes had drifted back up to meet his, holding the gaze with a clear growing lust, was rather plain. Dusty blonde, board-straight hair brushed just at his shoulders, and pale skin caught the light of the projector, making him look almost sickly. He wasn't someone a person would have looked at twice, unless they had taken the time to look into his carefully curved eyes.

There was something there though. A passion that couldn't be mistaken underneath the obvious shyness.

Their eyes remained locked with one another's. When Vincent finally came hard into the boy's mouth, those eyes were sucking him dry as much as the mouth was. Gods, it was good.

Then as if nothing had just happened between them, the younger man suddenly stood up and smiled oddly at him. It was odd since his mouth didn't exactly look comfortable with the position. Apparently it was Vincent's own job to put his cock back into his pants. And he did so, as the boy moved back around him and to his seat. Vincent watched after him and was expecting him to sit back down, but the boy suddenly grabbed his friend, forcing him to stand up, and kissed him deeply. Vincent watched, mesmerized.

Then the shorter boy released the blonde-haired boy, and smiled back at gunman. "Thanks."

The blonde boy wiped at the curve of his lips, and looked to Vincent. Crimson eyes widened. He suddenly realized what his aggressive lover had done. The odd positioning of the boy's mouth had been from a refusal to swallow the cum. And the taller boy had willing swallowed every bit of it, and was now pressing his body against the slightly shorter frame, clearly begging with his own desire. Vincent would have taken care of him in a heartbeat. But a moment after the 'Thanks', the redhead took his friend's hand and led him from the room. He found himself wanting to follow after them, but didn't dare.

The door closed. Vincent blinked. Coming off of his orgasm, he noted that those few minutes had been one of the most satisfying and unsatisfying sexual experiences of his life. Nonetheless, Vincent decided that he had gotten what he wanted.

Then again, maybe not. . .

A little disorientated, he stood up slowly, strapped his rifle back on, and started the long trek home. He was grateful when the hallway of the apartment building was empty. No Loris. But then for a brief deviant moment, he considered knocking on her door. The absurd idea was shrugged off just as quickly. No matter her flirting, her health just wasn't good enough anymore for a sexual relationship. Their nights together were over with and had been so for over ten years.

The man sighed. There was nothing like being twenty-seven for eternity.

Tired legs trudged up the stairs and to his room. After stripping down, he laid on his bed. It took him but a heavy breath to realize how tired he was. The ex-Turk fell asleep almost immediately.

Then the nightmares began.

  

  

**Chapter 2: My Brilliant Idea**

  

For the first time, her naked body was still. Breathtaking chocolate-colored eyes--eyes that had seized the ex-Turk's heart five decades earlier and had refused to let go--failed even to twitch as she stared at him. No words were whispered or screamed from her full, wide lips. The only movement came from her dark chestnut-colored hair, flowing on a breeze he couldn't feel, curling like tentacles in the green haze around her figure.

Lucrecia may as well have been a statue for her lack of life. Then again, she -was- dead. But in the last twenty years, she had never done this before. And Vincent could do nothing but stare back at the beautiful woman floating in the green abyss. He couldn't help it. In her stillness, she became something of the woman he loved, instead of merely a mindless nightmare. To be honest, he didn't want it to end.

Silence. Motionlessness. Nothing.

Something had changed, although what the specific change could have been eluded him. Lucrecia seemed non-inclined to let him in on the secret. So he stared. And she stared.

It could have been an hour or mere minutes--in dreams, it was impossible to tell--but as if coming to life with a jump-start, she suddenly screeched out. "You promised! You promised you'd take care of him! How could you. . . You monster! You promised!"

Vincent cringed at the harsh, grinding sound of her voice, instantly trying to block it out; instant denial. Almost as if in response, her pleading hands, the hardness of her mouth, the suffering, everything all became as it had been in an uncountable number of dreams:

"You must take care of him, Vincent! You must!" Countless times she repeated it. Over and over and over. "He is our son. Protect him!"

The piercing sound of her voice was already driving him mad. "Please stop," he begged of her with a tearful cry.

She didn't stop, nor could he wake up. He never could until she let him go.

But the extra words she added in only bewildered him. What had changed? What in the hell had he done?!

"Go to him. Go to him, you must!"

He wanted to storm at her, to cover her mouth, to twist her neck until she couldn't get any more air out, a brutal way of killing he'd executed as a Turk on several occasions, but he knew from experience that she would never let him come close.

"Please, gods, please just leave me alone!"

She didn't stop. The more he resisted, the louder the ringing voice grew. His head, his heart, felt like they were going to explode. Had the gunman reached up, he was sure he would have felt blood trickling from his ears.

Without any ground to stand on, Vincent curled into a ball, sobbing in a heap of flesh, trying in vain to escape. But it was impossible to escape his own mind. "Stop it. Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!"

Then without warning, a hand touched his shoulder and stopped his screaming. He looked up. Her face was so close, he could have kissed her lips.

In a voice that was so absurdly calm, Lucrecia whispered, "Go to him. Go to him now."

Vincent's eyes flashed open and he tried to sit up. He was disorientated for a moment, but quickly realized that he was in his apartment. Collapsing back onto the bed and growling a low moan, he swung a sweat-dampened arm over his eyes and tried to calm down his racing heart.

"Fuck."

Coming out of those dreams was like riding out a bad high. It hurt. It left him feeling sick. It made him beg his stubborn body for death. For a moment, he thought he heard Chaos' spiky laughter in the depths of his mind, but that thankfully went away with the grinding of his teeth. Damnable demons.

Minutes passed as his breath evened out. Eventually, he acknowledged Lucrecia's words, although he really didn't want to. But some part of him was curious. Never before had she said such things. For twenty years she had been nothing more than a recording, saying the exact same words night after night.

After so many years, she had shown an emotion other than pain: anger.

Something must have happened. Something had changed from yesterday to today. He was sure of it.

Then the obvious meaning of her fury hit him:

Had he met Sephiroth and hadn't even realized it, he thought, stunned by the notion. Who could it have been? There were so many people in Rocket Town, both coming and leaving every day. It was impossible to pick one specific face from another.

He frowned then. She had called him a monster, something she'd never done before, even in life. Perhaps that had something to do with it. Had he inadvertently hurt Sephiroth? Hurt him on purpose?

The ex-Turk puzzled over it. The whole day had been utterly uneventful. Nonetheless, he traced over it in his mind step by step: Loris, work, the butcher shop, Loris. No, nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. He hadn't even said a greeting to any person besides Loris and the butcher.

Finally he came to late evening. The theater. The arm covering his eyes sprung up to let its hand collapse over his mouth to keep back the sudden exclamation. Crimson eyes widened.

Behind the hand, he mumbled, "Good gods, she can't mean. . ."

The memory of those two boys shocked him into total submission. He couldn't even breathe. Old desires, forgotten desires, forbidden desires that he had shoved down into the pit of his soul, resurfaced as if they had never gone away.

"No, she can't mean. . . She couldn't!"

But if she did, which one was Sephiroth? He couldn't decide by looks alone. Sephiroth had new parents, two different people to give his soul a new body. There was no way to tell by outward appearances. So he had to work with Lucrecia's reaction alone. There had been such ferocity in her. In that moment, she seemed to detest him. The only conclusion he could come to was that it had been the one who'd satisfied him with a willing enthusiasm.

Vincent groaned, rubbing his hands harshly over his damp face, as the memory of the whole event sent his mind reeling. His body reacted without him even wanting it.

"Lucrecia, do you understand -now- why I never wanted to see him again?! Why. . . Why didn't you tell me he was mine? Maybe. . ." He cringed to hold back tears. "Maybe if you had just told me, maybe I wouldn't have felt. . . For my sanity, Lucrecia, why didn't you tell me?"

His lips pressed together for a moment. "Everything, everything is my fault," he whispered with a half-laugh, "everything because I always knew he was mine, even if I didn't want to admit it. And you know that, don't you? It's my fault. You believe it as well as I do. I should have fought for you. I should have fought harder. But I didn't listen, to you or myself. . . I never listened, did I?"

He let the last words from his dream play over in his mind again, trying to listen for once:

~~Go to him. Go to him now~~

"Lucrecia, you can't want me to. . ."

He let out a shaky, tearful breath. After what had happened yesterday, how could she possibly think he could help anyone? Had she lost her mind completely? He wouldn't have been surprised by the notion.

Aquamarine eyes filled his mind, eyes gazing at him from behind silver hair.

"Sephiroth. . ."

Vincent made up his mind in one moment to the next. He had to find Sephiroth. He had to make it right. For all of them. This nightmare had to end. It had to before -he- went insane, well, more than he already was.

Vincent swung out of the bed, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and sandals since it was simply easier and would get him out of the door quicker. He couldn't even consider his usual coffee, sure he'd throw up from the mere smell of it. He raced out the door and down the stairs. Surprising him, he noted that Loris wasn't lounging on her usual sofa.

What time was it exactly, he wondered as he rushed out the door.

The sun had barely risen. Never ending lines of sidewalks were almost barren of people. It was definitely early. He stalked down sure paths and roads until he came to a newer end of town.

The houses, in a neighborhood that preened perfection, were grand and expensive. And the gunman could have easily afforded one, but he preferred his apartment and the memories he had there with Loris. He couldn't leave her. He wouldn't leave her.

Long strides moved him up the sidewalk of a rather extravagant house. The structure, with its various high peaks and elegant carvings, towered above him and could have easily housed several families, but at the present, it only housed two men, minus one woman who had left years before for Cosmos to study astronomy. Nearly eighteen years earlier, the trio had built the impressive structure, and several of the neighboring houses. Today, Barret and Cloud had a good name for themselves as some of the best carpenters in town.

The tall engraved door dwarfed him. He hesitated while looking at it. There were no lights on inside. No motion. It really -was- too early to be knocking.

Vincent frowned and tried to gather his thoughts, but his mind was mush. He wasn't sure if he could ever think a rational thought again. With a sigh, he turned around with the intent of saving himself from some embarrassment and obliging his old friends with more sleep.

He was walking back along the sidewalk and away, when a flash caught his eye. He turned his head and was sure he saw the sweep of a sword from behind the house. His body was turning on its heal and taking an instant detour over the grass, before he even thought about what he was doing. Sure enough, beaming under the barely risen sun, was a spiky blonde mass of hair, brushing over a forty year old, but nonetheless childish face, with the man's wild motions. The serious scowl made Vincent grin for a moment, but the amusement was quickly lost. It was near impossible for the ex-Turk to grow a real smile anymore.

Vincent stepped around the corner, and almost immediately, Cloud whipped around with a dangerous downward swipe of his sword. Obvious recognition hit just as quickly as the man relaxed his battle stance.

"Gods, Vincent, I just ate," Cloud breathed out with the strenuous heaving of his bare chest, "Could you possibly sneak around a little more softly? Or better yet, *pant, cough* tap on my shoulder while I'm swinging my sword around?"

Vincent smirked at the dry sarcasm and crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly missing the weight of his own weapon as a child would miss his favorite blanket, despite his aversion toward the thing. "I apologize. It certainly wasn't my intent to make you lose your breakfast."

Cloud's lips pursed, making his face turn pink as he tried to hold back his breath. He stared blatantly as he scrutinized the raven-haired man. Vincent couldn't help but squirm, sure that Cloud was doing it on purpose to get that exact reaction. Cloud obviously knew something was up. The gunman had never made it routine to call on his friends at the crack of dawn. Actually, most of the time, it was his old friends who called on him. It was either taking on the chore of hunting him down, or like a ghost, they'd never see him.

Although Vincent would never say it to their faces, they just reminded him too much of the past. Especially Cloud.

Finally, the swordsman sighed and said with a merciful shrug, "yeah, well, I guess I'm just surprised to see someone up at this gods-awful time of morning. If Barret hadn't been snoring all night, -I'd- still be in bed." Cloud let the tip of his sword fall to the ground and leaned on the hilt. "So why are -you- up so early?"

"I should have waited until later, but this couldn't wait," Vincent murmured. Actually, it wasn't that he couldn't wait. It was that he was sure he wouldn't have been able to come had he thought reasonably about what he was doing. "You've been a good friend to me, and I do appreciate -"

"Man, Vincent, I said it was early. Get to the point."

"I need money."

"Oh." Blonde brows furrowed, before the man shrugged his shoulders. "Well, it's your money, Vincent. I'm just holding it for you, hoping you're going to actually do something with it one of these decades. And no, I'm not going to bother asking what it's for." The shorter man swung his sword over his shoulder and started toward the house. "Of course, if you want to tell me on the way. . . How much do you need anyway?"

"Ah. . ." Vincent hadn't really thought about an exact amount, so he just blurted out the first figure that came to mind, "about 500,000 Gil."

He pointedly ignored the other suggestion, and Cloud seemed to take the hint. He followed Cloud into the house and to the kitchen. The blonde man slipped on a shirt that had been draped over a chair, then busied himself by pouring a cup of coffee, as Vincent sat on a stool next to the kitchen counter. The cup was deposited in front of him without the slightest query as to whether or not he wanted it. Vincent sighed and breathed in some of the steam, grateful that his stomach didn't turn over. Of course, Cloud had always made an excellent cup of coffee. His own paled miserably in comparison.

A cup of his own in hand, the swordsman took up a seat next to him and blew a bit on the hot liquid. Vincent knew for a fact that the man was creating this little interlude on purpose. Cloud had an awkward way of showing it, but he cared. And they were going to sit there for a while until Vincent started giving up some of the details.

Might as well get to the point, Vincent thought with a slight smirk. After all, Cloud had asked for it. "Why do you love Sephiroth?"

The spray of hot coffee showered over the expanse of the counter. Cloud then proceeded to cough profusely, much to Vincent's dark amusement. If one thing could get to Cloud, it was Sephiroth. It was the same for the both of them.

"Good gods, Vincent. It's WAY too fucking early to be answering that one!" The blonde man reached across him and grabbed a damp wash cloth lying next to the sink. His scowl deepened as he wiped at the counter. Finally he stopped and looked directly into crimson eyes. "Why are you asking me this? Why now? It's been twenty bloody years!"

The blonde man's teeth clenched, clearly holding back numerous emotions. Vincent instantly regretted his impulsiveness.

"I'm sorry. I guess. . ." What? Time hadn't moved one inch for him? His every thought barely covered his thoughts of Sephiroth? He was an idiot? The last one sounded the best. "I guess I'm an idiot. I'm sorry I bothered you with this."

Cloud rolled his eyes then and noticeably relaxed. "Man, get over yourself. Really, it just took me by surprise." He dropped the wash cloth and sipped a bit more coffee. Vincent noticed then that his thick hands were trembling. "Why do I love Sephiroth. . ."

"You don't have to answer," Vincent urged quietly. This was a complete mistake. All of it.

"No. No, I'll answer you. Just give me a minute." He rested the mug back on the counter and smiled weakly. "But I have to tell you that it's not all that simple. I loved him in so many different ways. He had so many qualities. He was just perfect, yet the most flawed man to ever walk the planet. You know what I mean?"

Vincent nodded. He understood all too well.

"He was so commanding, but at the same time, he had this shyness that made you want to, well, hold him all night." Cloud smiled, obviously lost in his own memories. The blonde man had done just that. "Most people couldn't see that side of him. He hid it so well. Then again, most people probably didn't want to see it. You know how it is: people -need- a role model to make up for their own sorry lives. Mine included." He sighed, swishing his coffee around, before adding, "I don't think anyone realized he was just as human as the next. He was more human than I was."

Ocean-blue eyes looked to him. Vincent offered his own weak smile. The smile seemed to have the opposite effect though as the blonde man suddenly looked near tears. The gunman began to reach out a hand, but stilled when Cloud suddenly continued:

"Can I tell you something, Vincent? I mean, do you promise not to get upset," the blonde man asked, his voice lowering to a near whisper. Vincent nodded slowly, feeling knots forming in his stomach. "I've wanted to tell you this for years, well, ever since I met you. You just. . . When you smile. . ."

Vincent's heart hammered in his chest. The look on Cloud's face was something he had never wanted to see directed at him by this man. It was a begging, an 'Accept what I have to say, or I'll just die' type of expression. And Vincent had been waiting for it for the last twenty years.

"You just remind me of him. Of Sephiroth, I mean. I think-I think that there was even a time when I thought I loved you." A calloused hand reached up and touched Vincent's cheek. "But you're not him, are you?"

Biting on his tongue, Vincent shook his head.

"What Hojo said on the tower that day. . . Are -"

"Yes."

Vincent thought for sure that the man was going to cry by the way his face crinkled up, but Cloud merely dropped his hand and set to work on enthusiastically blowing on his coffee, although the blows were more like wheezes. Vincent closed his eyes in a vain attempt to give the man some privacy, as well as distance himself.

After a few pointless seconds of that, the blonde man swung around and jumped off of his seat. "I think I need something a bit stronger," he muttered without apology.

The ex-Turk opened his eyes and watched as Cloud walked to the cupboard, fished out an antique bottle, grabbed a large water glass, and filled it to the brim. The gunman opened his mouth, but quickly closed it. He couldn't deny Cloud his way of dealing with the situation. Instead, he dropped his gaze to his feet and shook his head. This was a huge mistake.

"You know," Cloud said suddenly from across the kitchen. Vincent jerked his head back up. "The way you looked at him. . . The way we used to talk about Sephiroth. . ."

If Vincent had never blushed in his life, he definitely did it now. He chugged down half of his coffee in a couple of humongous gulps. Yeah, the heat was just from the coffee, that's right. Yeah right.

"Calm down, Vince." The swordsman chuckled out dryly, then proceeded to chug down a good third of the contents from his own glass. Then he let his back slide down the cabinet until he was seated on the delicately tiled floor. "After everything we've been through together, do you think anything could possibly bother me anymore? Besides, Sephiroth is dead. Any love that man can get, well, no one else is going to give it to him."

"Cloud, you don't understand. I never knew for sure. Lucrecia, she said I wasn't his father." They were desperate words and Vincent knew it. He looked down into his mug. Never before had he realized how beautiful coffee was when the morning sun shined off of it. It was a distraction. Anything to get away from the situation.

"So what's changing your mind now?"

His every muscle tensed and it was difficult to get out the short laugh. "A nightmare."

"Maybe you should sleep on a different mattress."

Vincent swung his head around to look at the shorter man, and burst out laughing, although it was short lived. Then he shook his head. "Do you think it's. . ." He couldn't finish the statement

"My dear friend, I already said that I -don't- care. And with my 'flawless' record, I'm certainly the last person who's going to judge you. Really, it's always been a thought in the back of my mind. I guess I tried to deny what I saw between you two, but well, it was a little too obvious to me to ever convince myself otherwise."

Vincent nodded. Both men sat in silence and finished off their drinks, although Cloud only managed about half of his. Finally the blonde man set the glass down on the floor, shoved himself back onto his feet, and left the room. A few minutes later, he came back, staggering slightly. In his hand was a good sized bag.

Cloud laid it on the counter before he turned to search Vincent's face. "I won't ask what this money is for, but Vincent, if you find him. . . Tell him that I love him, will you?"

"Of course," came the raven-haired man's instant reply. "Say 'good morning' to Barret for me when he wakes up."

That was all the gunman could manage. He had to get out. Now.

Vincent picked up the bag and could barely stop himself from running out of the door. Everything was falling apart. His most hidden secrets were known by another, although it sounded like Cloud had always known what the ex-Turk had denied in vain for over fifty years. He knew Cloud's acceptance wasn't encouragement, but just acceptance from someone overwhelmed him. His thoughts and actions couldn't be accepted. Ever.

As he raced around the outside of the house, the city of Rocket Town spread out before him. For the first time in a long while, it was overwhelming.

Vincent sucked in his breath and held it. Now all he had to do was track down the boy. Luckily the day was long, and he didn't need his job.

His choices were severely limited. The first and only place Vincent could think of going was back to the theater, which was on the opposite side of the city. But instead of going directly to it, he stopped back at his apartment to change his clothes, get his hair out of his face with the bandanna, and retrieve his rifle, not that he expected to use the gun.

But, by the gods, what if the boy really was Sephiroth, he wondered, dismayed. Would he recognize the rifle? Not that he did the other night. Perhaps if he shoved it in the boy's face -

"Gods, get a grip! This boy isn't Sephiroth!" He barreled back down the stairs, his mind racing feebly to work this all out. "Well, he is, actually. But that doesn't mean he remembers." His mind then vacantly added the 'me' to the end of the sentence, something his voice couldn't do.

Out of habit, he looked to the couch once more. Loris still hadn't taken up her daily position and the day was crawling into late morning. Once again, he considered knocking on her door, but he knew if he did, he'd never make it out until dusk. No, he would check up on her later, although it surprised him how much he missed her attentions. After sixteen years, her presence was something he looked forward to. His memories were with her. She was why he stayed in an apartment building that demanded to be demolished with every creak.

Vincent shoved the gold arm band up a little higher, as he whispered, "I'll talk to her later."

Then he turned around and walked out the front door. The city now brimmed with traffic. The way to the east side of town was slow for several blocks, but eventually it cleared up. After all, that part of the city was generally only occupied at night, giving the men and women who worked there a chance to pass out from a night of groping.

It was nearly noon when he arrived at the theater he frequented. Unsurprising, no one was at the window. He couldn't very well knock.

Sighing, he turned around and let his crimson eyes take in the wash of colors from a multitude of posters and neon lights. His eyes focused on the theater across the street. Vincent frowned. "Didn't he say. . ."

Long strides took him forward immediately. Just as with the other theater though, there was no one at the window. He mumbled an obscenity and was about to start walking away, planning to come back at a more appropriate time, when a woman suddenly came out of one of the doors to his left.

"Excuse me," Vincent half-hollered in his relief, as he stalked up to her.

The woman stopped in mid step, eyeing him suspiciously, her hand tightening its grip on her keys.

Not quite ready to lose an eye, the gunman stopped himself and put out a hand like he was steadying a wild horse. "Please forgive me, but could I ask you a question? If you have a moment."

Her lips pursed as she noticeably relaxed. "Sure. I'm just going out for lunch, but I have a minute. What do you need?"

Er, how to put it. . . "Well, you see, I met two young men last night but I failed to learn their names." The woman raised a brow at him and he cleared his throat. "Yeah, well, one man is about twenty with auburn hair, slightly curly, and ah, quite lovely." He really wanted to cough at that point. How was he supposed to ask this without it sounding like a wet-dream? "The other man was a blonde and a bit taller than his friend. I think they might come here often."

Her grin was slow to grow, but soon she looked more demon than human. "You better not tell the boss that he's giving it away for free. No, I know who you're talking about. Your little session was about all I heard about last night."

The ex-Turk couldn't stop his jaw from dropping slightly. "You mean the boy's a whore?!"

She snorted, and he growled lightly. Directness had its place but that moment wasn't it.

"Well, I wouldn't say that to his face, but more or less, yes. He's one of the few that I think was actually born for it." She crossed her arms over her chest, bringing her keys to her lips to rub the bottom one. "His friend though, well, he came to town several weeks ago. I'll be surprised if he makes it. He's just a little too. . ." Her thin brows furrowed as she seemed to search for the proper word, but then she shook her head a bit. "Ah, forget it. I'm sure he'll fit in all too well eventually. They always do. Look, just come back tonight, and I'm sure you'll find your little redhead lover more than willing."

After a flirtatious wink, she turned and walked around the side of the building.

"Bloody hell," was all Vincent could manage. Suddenly the boys' actions--a whore and his fledgling in training--made a lot more sense.

And his prostitute 'son' had just given him the blowjob of his life.

Lucrecia -had- to be mistaken, his mind asserted. Or he had surely mistaken her words. This couldn't be right! Then again, suddenly all of Lucrecia's begging and desperate pleas made sense as well. Had she known? Why hadn't he ever listened to her, truly listened, instead of fighting her every step of the way? Maybe he would have been able to stop him before. . .

Suddenly his vision wavered. The world seemed to spin. He was grateful then that he hadn't eaten anything, fore he surely would have thrown up. The man stumbled over to the nearest wall and slumped down, his rifle scraping against the wall every inch of the way, and collapsed onto his backside. Pain shot through his body, but he couldn't work up enough energy to care. Guilt, pain, misery killed his ability to breath properly. He could feel people's eyes on him as they passed by, but he couldn't care.

"Why didn't I listen. . ."

  

  

**Chapter 3: Make Me Feel the Pain**

  

Now feeling like a full-fledged stalker, Vincent had remained close to the building until nightfall. Never eating. Hardly even blinking.

The streets were busy again, crawling with the cleanliest and mangiest of society. When the doors opened, he was one of the first inside. Hours ago, he had realized that the woman had never told him the boy's name. He wasn't about to ask for it. So all he could do was take up a bench by the door and wait.

An hour passed. Then another. People paraded past him, rarely the same face twice. He wouldn't have been surprised if he had missed them. He could barely even see clearly anymore. Everything was blurry and no amount of blinking helped. His head ached. His body was deathly exhausted. He wished he was in his apartment, even Loris' apartment. That he had never went to that damnable theater the night before. That he had never loved Lucrecia, nor showed her that fact in every possible way, even asking her to marry him.

"Gods, I'm a walking regret." He clunked his head against the wall behind himself and closed his eyes for what seemed like only a moment.

A hand gripped his shoulder, and he jerked upright, colliding foreheads with his 'attacker'. The bandanna saved Vincent from a bit of the pain. Nevertheless, he still witnessed a wondrous array of lights.

The other person staggered backwards, gripping his forehead. "Shit!"

Vincent stumbled onto his feet and took a step forward, reaching out for the boy who was undeniably the redhead from the night before.

The boy laughed then, looking at him with one hazel eye, the other closed, as he rubbed his forehead a bit. "Sorry to wake you up like that. Caila told me you were looking for me." The hand rubbed the pale skin once more, before that graceful hand swept auburn locks off of his face. Then he winked. "I wasn't expecting you to track me down so quickly. Not that I mind. Truth be told, I'm rather glad. I'd love to see what else you got hidden under that cloak of yours."

Vincent felt like he was going to die just standing there listening to him flirt. He felt sick. Never mind the last fifty-seven years. This moment was the most miserable of his entire life. And his 'son' must have seen it in his face. Gods, he was dizzy.

"Are you okay," the boy asked as he reached out a hand to steady him. The gunman hadn't even realized he had started to fall over. "Look, I got a room right upstairs. Come on."

The boy looped an arm around Vincent's elbow and led him through the crowd. The ex-Turk couldn't believe he didn't stop the other person. He couldn't even will his mouth to move. He was so bloody tired. He just wanted it all to end. All of it. It was all too much. Gods, he just wanted to die. Maybe, maybe this boy, this young man who might very well be the incarnation of his son, Sephiroth, would do it for him. Maybe if he just asked, the redhead would take retribution for all of Vincent's sins.

The stairs seemed never ending. As did the hallway. Step after step.

'Gods, just end this, end it all for me, please. Punish me. Kill me,' his numb mind whispered.

Seemingly oblivious to his companion's state, the redhead stopped at a door and unlocked it with a key he had pulled out of his jeans. Inside, the room was lavishly decorated with a four-posted bed and chairs that were clearly made for more than just sitting. The walls displayed a various assortment of hooks, bars, and rings at various heights. The colorful draperies, paintings, and rugs strategically placed about managed to soften the coarse equipment of pleasure and torture.

He was led to the bed and urged to sit on it. His rifle scrapped at the back of his head as it tried to accommodate for the plush mattress.

"Do you mind if I take that off," the boy asked, brushing with horrible gentleness at some of the raven locks that covered Vincent's blood-red eyes. Vincent nodded, staring off. Smirking a little, the redhead then tucked the locks behind an ear and added, "My name's Cibel, by the way, just in case you want to scream it out or something."

Vincent cringed. Never! Never would he let that happen. At least not again.

Over Vincent's surely obvious monotonous reactions, careful fingers undid the straps, lifted the gun up, and took off the scabbard in one smooth motion. No reaction from him seemed to detour the boy from his goal, even though most prostitutes seemed to have an uncanny ability to mold themselves to their client's wishes. Vincent couldn't help but wonder if the redhead was purposely ignoring his reactions or merely blind to him. Or perhaps he had a purpose in all of this that Vincent would probably never understand.

"Cibel, it's a girl's name, I know. Blame my grandma," Cibel murmured absentmindedly as he positioned the rifle at his shoulder and aimed it at a painting of a naked man and woman in a compromising position. "You know, my dad taught me to shoot. Man, that seems like an eternity ago. But he never had one this nice. I think he would pay money just to -hold- this thing."

The gunman looked up at the pair. It was obvious that the boy didn't even realize that in a previous life the same gun had probably aided in killing him. "Do you seek retribution?" His voice sounded foreign to his own ears.

The boy dropped the gun to his upper thighs and frowned at him. "Retribution? What do you mean? Do you?" When the raven-haired man said nothing, he put the rifle on the bed and crouched down in front of him. Wide hazel eyes looked up at him. They almost seemed innocent, as he asked, "Do you want me to punish you, Mr. Valentine?"

Vincent's chin dropped to his chest and he squeezed his eyes shut. It didn't matter to him that this person knew who he was. He wanted anything. He wanted an end. Fingers began to undo the buttons of his cloak without permission, not that the boy needed it. It was then brushed off of his shoulders. The careful motions continued at his shirt, then belts, then pants, until his chest and the raven hair at his groin were exposed. His shirt came off in one easy movement, even over the claw. The boy was an expert. A sob almost flooded out of Vincent at the thought.

A hot tongue touched his nipple. He gasped and flung himself back, his eyes wide and taking in the younger man's surprise. No, not this again! He wouldn't allow it.

The surprise left with remarkable ease as an unkind smirk formed. "Ah, you want to be -punished-."

The redhead shot upright suddenly, landed a hand squarely on Vincent's chest, and shoved him back. Raven hair pooled around his head. His pale chest and dark, hardened nipples were shining with a light gleam of sweat. Despite the boy's aggression, hazel eyes took him in with obvious appreciation. The ex-Turk's boots came off in two quick movements.

"You would not believe how happy that makes me. Stand up."

The boy helped him up, but Vincent could barely support his own weight. He didn't have a choice in the matter though, as the younger man crouched back down and pulled his pants down over his hips, releasing his erection. The redhead ignored it and demanded with his hands that Vincent step out of his pants. He did so, but only after he gripped one of the bed posts.

"Walk to the wall and grab those two rings above your head."

Vincent's head was swimming. Heat flooded his skin at his nakedness. But underneath it, he wanted to obey, to do something right for once. He stumbled the few meters and pressed his body against the textured wall. Most of the walls in the room were smooth. It gave him the impression that this wall was bumpy as well as prickly on purpose.

He reached above his head. His metal claw clinked as he grasped a ring. The gold rings on his other hand nearly matching the musical sound as he gripped the other, but it was also cool to the heat of his skin. He could barely form decent grips though without getting up on his toes. He could hear the other man doing something, but he merely closed his eyes and waited. The wait seemed eternal.

Suddenly the redhead was behind him, caressing a set of fingernails over his skin and through the hair running down to his hips. "I'll make sure this lasts a long while, but can I ask why you want this? I do know who you are. You helped save the world. And my parents. Hell, I wasn't even born yet." The hand cupped a rounded cheek to squeeze it none-too-gently. "I don't understand why you think you deserve punishment. Who did you hurt?"

"Everyone. I've hurt everyone."

There was a pause before the boy's reply. His quiet voice barely hid his annoyance. "I don't believe you, Mr. Valentine, and I'll tell you why. Spread your legs."

His long legs edged out until they were hip-width apart. With the loss of height, he was forced to stand on his tiptoes to keep a hold on the rings. He sobbed his embarrassment against the hard wall. He was exposed like he'd never been before. His buttocks were spread, no longer hiding his anus. His balls and testicles hung down, rubbing against the textured wall.

A fingernail then scratched its way back up his spine. "I don't believe you because, right now, you're giving me a terrible pleasure. The last thing you're doing is hurting me." The boy pressed himself against Vincent. His clothed erection pressed into the ex-Turk's tense upper thigh. "If you want to scream, Vincent, no one will hear you."

With that, something hard and icy cold, but slippery was shoved up his opening. And Vincent did holler out his alarm. The object was huge, and it kept going in. It burned. Finally, when Vincent was about to start begging for mercy, it suddenly narrowed, and his anus clamped onto the smaller area.

"Keep that in," came the heavy whisper from the shorter man next to his ear. The plug was twisted around almost playfully. Vincent moaned hoarsely, bucking his hips back as much as he could. It was horrific, lustful pleasure that had him in tears.

The redhead stepped back. The gunman's pale skin was instantly chilled, although the room was warm. It was quiet for a few seconds. Vincent could only listen to his own panting. The plug inside him expanded him, bring constant pressure to his insides. He wanted to beg the man to move it again, to feel the glorious pleasure instead of this enraging itch, but didn't dare.

"Don't let go of the rings. I'm going to cane you until I'm sure you'll feel every one of my thrusts into you."

Vincent groaned at the mere thought. He had never been caned before. It couldn't have been any worse than gunshot wounds, guts-spilling gashes, or transforming into a demon.

The first crack came down diagonally over both of his cheeks. Pain exploded through his backside, cock, and knees as his body slammed against the wall to vainly escape the blow. The blow itself left behind a line of fiery pain. He definitely hollered out, swinging his head back. The boy was obviously holding little back.

Looking up at the ceiling now, he noticed that it was covered in mirrors. He squeezed his eyes shut to escape the erotic sight of pain drenching his face. His forehead swung forward to hit the wall. He was terrified of the next blow.

The man only had a few seconds to revel in the agony before the cane came down again. The line was more horizontal than the first one. Where the two lines intersected, it felt numb, before the fire was compounded indefinitely. It hurt.

The cracks came down one after another, covering his buttocks and upper thighs. Each one created a substantial welt. Whatever erection he'd had, he quickly lost.

If he was lucky, he'd be able to sit down in a couple of weeks.

His face, his chest, his body were damp with tears and sweat when the redhead finally stopped. He couldn't move. He could hardly even breathe anymore. His whole backside felt like an inferno. Only a command from his lover would have made him even attempt movement. Then that wonderful hand--gods, he wanted to kiss that hand--played a little more with the plug up his backside, relieving the itchiness of it. His cock gradually hardened again with the continued attentions.

"Come here."

Crimson eyes flashed open. He thought, well, prayed he was only hearing things when footsteps walked up behind him. Embarrassment drowned his mind. He was about to tear his grips away, to grab a blanket to cover himself or to just fly out of the room, naked to the world, but a hot hand pressed his long hair against his sweat-dampened back and stilled him.

"Don't move."

A cool hand was then at his backside, applying some marvelous lotion that turned the blaze into mere lines of kindling of its former self. Each line those generous fingers went over begged for more attention. His lover continued to twist the solid mass enlarging his opening. Their motions brought the scent of the lotion to him, smelling vaguely of flowers and cream. Every part of him ached with the pleasure of it all.

Oh gods, do it, his mind pleaded, please don't stop! He was going to come if they kept this up.

Then both sets of hands left, and Vincent heard the distinct sound of kissing. It was wet and was causing both men behind him to moan. The near desperate sounds left Vincent desperate. His eyes clamped shut and he ground his cock against the wall. The spikes and bumps pleasured him in a way he never thought he could enjoy before. Of course at that point, with the adrenaline raging through him, dampening his pain, nearly anything would have brought him pleasure.

"Turn around and kneel down."

The skin and muscles of his hand, legs, and back stung terribly. To even just consider moving almost made him laugh in bewilderment as to just how exactly it would be accomplished without instant death. He wanted to beg for mercy, but there was no point in it. He had to move sometime. The pain would only increase the longer he stood there.

With the length of time he had gripped the rings, holding up a good portion of his own weight, letting go almost hurt as much as the caning. He whimpered through it all. Much to his dismay, his knees buckled, but two strong arms caught him. He looked up. A softly smiling face curtained with dirty blonde hair watched him carefully. There was instant recognition in Vincent. It was the blonde-haired boy from the theater. Being so close to him now, he could tell that the boy's eyes were a light brown, a few shades darker than his hair. Then they were lost as the blonde man moved to his ear.

"Bend your knees," the man murmured.

It was the first time he'd heard the blonde boy speak. His voice was beautiful and effortless, but exhilarating at the same time.

Vincent followed the order as best he could, but the boy ended up coming to the ground with him. Or perhaps that was his intent. Careful fingers weaved through his hair and brought the locks around to his back, just brushing his hips.

A hand then continued down until it cupped his aching cheek. The blonde boy squeezed it playfully, but the pain was incredible. Vincent hollered out, lunging forward to escape the hand. The sudden cock in his face stopped him though. Cibel was standing directly in front of him, still completely clothed except for the length that had been pulled out of his un-zippered pants.

The blonde was at his ear again, chiding him with a little chuckle. A whisper, his breath warm, he said, "If you did that to me right now, I'd probably do the same thing." The words made Vincent moan. "You're so beautiful, like the demon in my dreams."

The words were lost to him as the mouth moved to the ex-Turk's neck, biting and licking. When Cibel's cock touched Vincent's lips, he didn't hesitate in taking it into his mouth. He sucked his son--or was the other man kissing his neck his son--with abandon. The wet sounds of his own mouth and the teeth working down to his nipple, drove him crazy. He wanted to reach out for the blonde boy's cock, but his closest hand was his claw and he didn't dare.

Vincent took the man in deeply, his nose brushing against the zipper of his pants. His own cock dripped with precum, but nothing touched it. And for that he was glad. He wouldn't have lasted long. Every desire he'd ever had burst through the walls he had built up in his mind. Gods, how he had wanted this! To take his son. To taste every part of him.

"Get it as slippery as you can because I'm going to fuck you with it. I'm going to love fucking you, Vincent."

The gunman moaned, working the cock all the more, taking it beyond the point when his jaw began to ache. The redhead was thrusting against him. Then Cibel trembled and suddenly pulled away, panting. Vincent looked up at hazel eyes, panting himself. The blonde man at his side stood up.

"Jacin -is- right. You are beautiful. Even more than you were last night." The redhead reached out and caressed Vincent's cheek, then raked his hand through thick raven locks and yanked Vincent forward until he fell onto his hands. Now on his hands and knees like a dog, the redhead circled around to his back and kneeled around his bent legs, trapping them there. The blonde man, whose name was apparently Jacin, came around to the front of him, his erect cock as free as his naked body.

The plug was removed with an agonizing slowness. It was delicious torture. His body filled with heat. Surely he would come soon, whether or not they touched his erection. Then it finally came out with a slight pop and was tossed aside. Vincent released a breath he hadn't even realized he had been holding in. The redhead played with his opening, working the tip of his erection in further with each small thrust. Eyes closed, Vincent panted and groaned with every one of them. He felt the blonde man's cock at his lips, circling them once. The gunman didn't need any more encouragement. He took it in with a rare enthusiasm. His own length ached with his desire. But there was no touching it.

This was his punishment. They could use him in any way they wanted. It didn't matter who was his son, if either. He just wanted them covering him, assaulting his mouth. It was freeing to be used like that. It reduced him to a body and the desires of it. It was freedom.

The redhead's every pound against his backside brought unequivocal pain and delight. Just as his lover had promised, Vincent felt every single thrust, inside of himself and inflaming his buttocks and thighs. The cock using his mouth brought his throat to swell. He wasn't used to this. But there was no stopping it. Not until they had come into him.

The red-haired boy came first with one final slam against Vincent's body. Fingernails dug into his hips and he moaned through it all, vibrating the cock in his mouth.

Just as quickly, the blonde one pressed his groin against Vincent's face and came down his throat. Tears pooled in the older man's eyes from the extreme discomfort. Thankfully, Jacin pulled away quickly before Vincent fainted from a lack of breath. Lodged between them, he couldn't have done it himself.

They let him collapse to the floor in a heap. He could scarcely hear them over his heavy breath and pounding heart. But he did hear the quiet, "Lay down."

One of the boys padded away. The sound of the bed creaking made Vincent look up, but it was useless with his blurred vision. He simply couldn't see that far at the moment.

"Take him, Mr. Valentine. Pleasure him. Have him pleasure you." Cibel knelt on one knee next to him, weaving a hand through his ebony hair. Under his breath, presumably so that Jacin wouldn't hear, he whispered, "But he's mine, so take care in how you use him."

The warning was clear. It apparently didn't matter to this young man that Vincent Valentine was the finest sniper in the world. Of course, after what had just happened between them, it would have been surprising if the boy had let it cross his mind. Besides, he understood that the Cibel had every right to demand that he be nice to his friend.

The man walked away and out of the room. The ornately carved door was closed solidly behind him. Vincent blinked, trying to absorb the suddenness of what had just happened.

"Wait!" Vincent blurted out, but went into a coughing fit from the abuse to his throat. The money. He hadn't given Cibel the money. The door never reopened

The man spent nearly a minute trying to restrain himself. His loud coughs echoed in the room. Every convulsion created new agony. Finally though, he was able to work air in and out of his lungs with only a harsh tickle at the back of his throat. Wiping at his eyes, he cleared his throat, and despite his dizziness, pushed himself up onto his knees. He had to get out of there. He had to find the boy and give him the money. Then it was over. Lucrecia -had- to leave him in peace.

Crimson eyes squinted a look to the bed. His clothes and rifle were nowhere in sight. All that was left was a naked body that was apparently his for the night.

  

  

**Chapter 4: The Priceless Body**

  

The boy watched him, his face guarded; his smooth, but well-muscled body was open and generous lying on the plush mattress. There was a controversy between Jacin's body and face, one that had formed since Cibel's departure. One said 'fuck me'; the later said 'don't fuck with me or you won't survive it.' In watching him and being watched in return, Vincent got the distinct impression that the younger man was hiding something, perhaps even running away from something, but that failed to arouse his curiosity. There were things he had to take care of, and delving into the psyche of a prostitute wasn't one of them.

Despite the obvious contrast though, Jacin only breathed shallowly as he waited. The boy clearly had no serious objection to what his friend had proposed. The ex-Turk didn't think the younger man was being held against his will, an abusive situation that wasn't all that rare sadly. An ex-"patient" of Hojo's, he knew full well what being trapped was like. In the end, if the boy wanted to leave, he knew where the door was, and with his every muscle alive with pain, Vincent couldn't have put up a fight had he wanted to.

Shoving away those observations, Vincent swallowed hard and forced himself to look away. There was no way he was spending the night with this teenager, no matter how appetizing he was. He couldn't stay there, period. The man he'd come for had made yet another quick exit. He had to find him again.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blonde boy roll onto his side and cushion his head on his hand over his bent elbow. Those light brown eyes continued to watch him, making his skin crawl, not to mention blood pool at his groin.

He had to get out of there. Now.

The gunman pushed at the floor. He growled when his arms began to shake uncontrollably. Burning with embarrassment and impatience, he stopped after a moment. The boy shifted again, clearly wanting to help him and ready to if Vincent asked. But that only served to thicken the air. Tension swelled between them. Vincent growled again just to ease it a bit, since there was nothing he could say to make the situation any easier.

"Do you want. . ." Jacin let his quiet voice trail off with a shallow blow of air.

Vincent made it a point not to answer, as he worked again to stand up. His beaten muscles fought with him through it all. Jacin continued his unapologetic stare.

Finally, thankfully, on his sore feet, Vincent used the wall for balance as he raked a gaze around the room, looking for his clothing. He dreaded getting the articles back on. The pain would surely send him through the roof. But he had no choice now. Unnerved by the idea that he was going to have to search or ask where his clothes were, with a shallow groan, he turned to the younger man. After all, merely asking was easier and would result in less embarrassment, physically anyway.

"You're leaving," the blonde man stated evenly, taking the hint. A muscular arm raised to point. "They're over there on the shelf."

"Thanks." Had someone asked, Vincent wouldn't have been able to accurately describe the agony in walking the short distance. Every step was an explosion in his muscles. It was excruciating. Then without warning, but not for the first time that night, he grew dizzy. The floor suddenly became a lot closer than it should have been. What seemed like a second later, a face was above his.

"He isn't usually so rough, you know. Especially to someone he likes." Jacin wiped a few lock of hair out of Vincent's eyes, holding his head up in the crook of his elbow. "You must have asked for it."

A bit of muddled, delirious laughter sputtered from Vincent's lips. "You're right. I did ask for it."

"Are you all right?" The boy watched him carefully, ginger-colored eyes full of curiosity and concern, a contrast to the obvious--though most likely unconscious--glare he had been giving the ex-Turk before.

"Yea." That was more than enough concern from this boy. Vincent tried to sit up, but only managed it with the boy's help. The handwoven rug ate as his bruised backside. He tried to conceal his pain though. He was sure that complaining would only bring more concerned words from the other man.

Naturally, those words came anyway: "Do you want to lie down? You're just so pale. Have you eaten anything? Are you hungry?"

Besides the cum? No, the ex-Turk recalled, he hadn't eaten a thing all day. The stress and punishment were surely only adding to his state. Nonetheless, he couldn't eat at that moment. He was certain nothing worthwhile had even a chance of staying down. Vincent shook his head but instantly regretted it. The darkness tried to swallow him again. His hand shot up to his forehead. "No. Look, I just need to get home."

Leaning forward a bit, just lifting his backside off of his ankles, the man chuckled lightly close to Vincent's cheek. His breath was warm and tinged with the scent of wine. "I bet you a thousand Gil that you wouldn't make it a block."

"You think so?" The older man turned his head with a careful slowness.

"Yea. Would you kill me if I put you on the bed? Really, you should lay down for a minute. You'll feel better."

Never mind the initial scowl; the idea sounded surprisingly alluring. He sure as hell didn't want to faint again. Maybe just a bit of rest. . . He nodded curtly and gasped when warm arms instantly wrapped themselves around his chest and lifted.

Despite his continuous working of his body, one thing Vincent had never gained was a substantial amount of muscle. His frame was thin, but well-proportioned. It was as if he had aged until he was seventeen, then stopped. The only attribute impeding about him was his considerable height, but this boy managed to top him in that arena by a centimeter or two. Not to mention, Jacin's broad chest rippled with smooth muscles as he helped him walk to the bed like an oversized crutch. Take out of the equation Vincent's training as a Turk and the demon invading his body, and he would have been outmatched.

Every step caused an indeterminable jolt of pain, but the plush bed offered a welcome softness even to his bruised backside. Nonetheless, he kept his muscles stiff. He couldn't stay there. Just a bit of a rest and then he'd go find Cibel. Just a bit. . .

Man, his eye lids were heavy. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard wicked laughter, but that didn't stop him from drifting off into sleep.

The dream came on quickly, or at least it seemed to. For the first time, Vincent hated the sight of Lucrecia's face. Fury distorted it, aging her terribly. He wanted to storm at her, to shake her, to demand that she just die. He hated her. He loved her. It was that love that made him stay in his spot in the green abyss and seethe with his own anger.

He knew now that he had been correct. Her face said it. There was no need for her to speak. Perhaps that was why she didn't.

Cibel was his son. He wanted to yell at her, declaring, 'yes, I fucked our son. And he loved it as much as I did!' But there was no need to say that out loud either. She knew what had happened. It was obvious.

Then, without any motion on either of their parts, the distance was closed between them, although she was surely the one who had closed the gap. Lucrecia screamed her misery as her fits came at him, punching in blind rage. She shrieked, "How could you! Our son! You animal! You're supposed to protect him!"

Vincent didn't lift an arm to defend himself. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together into a hard line.

It was only a dream. Her punches couldn't have actually hurt him. Nor he could have hurt her. But that didn't matter. Her rage hurt. Her feelings of betrayal made him want to wail.

Now that he had let her in, completely, he realized that he couldn't block anything out anymore. No longer was she a mere recording, trying to make him understand something he refused to even consider.

She was a woman, the woman he loved. At that moment, he would have given anything to go back to the way it had been two days before.

"You don't deserve him! You never did!" Her naked body was against his naked body, but he felt no warmth from it. Her hands clawed at his neck and jaw as she tried to get him to look at her. "Why do you think I never told you Sephiroth is your son, you selfish bastard?! At least Hojo -cared-."

Craze widened crimson eyes met brown ones. Then her eyes were lost to him as his hand slammed against her cheek, twisting her neck and knocking her off of his body. He glared down at her shaking, tear stricken face. "Hojo 'cared'?! Have you looked at me? Yourself?! He killed you and damned me to an eternal hell. He used Sephiroth like our son was some mute animal! Good gods, woman, you can't possibly think. . ."

Her frail form curled up in a heap and she sobbed. The sounds were dreadful. He hated listening to them, but couldn't stop. This hurt too much. It hurt her too much. Surely she was regretting it, all of the last twenty years. He had disappointed her.

"Lucrecia, plea -"

The woman flung her head up, stopping his words, burning a dark gaze into him. Lines of tears glittered green in the haze. Clearly disgusted, she spat, "You've never been able to see what is right in front of your eyes."

Vincent awoke in an instant. The room was dim, lit only by a lamp on a nearby table. He thought for a moment that he was in his apartment, but the air was too clean and the bed too comfortable.

There was another factor. Crimson eyes blinked, but still saw the face mere centimeters from his own. The wide generous face peaked out of layers of dirty blonde hair. In the darkness, the boy's pale skin looked heathy, flushed from the heat of layered blankets.

A sleeping face looked remarkably different from an awake one, as it took away a person's personality. This boy was no exception. The un-focused anger was gone, as well as the non-concealable threat of bodily harm. The concern and curiosity were missing too. He was like an empty shell.

But this particular empty shell housed something he'd desired for far too long. He knew without a doubt.

"Right in front of my eyes. . ." Vincent whispered. Without thinking, he reached out a hand, ignoring the soreness in it. Instead, he concentrated on the wonder and absolute fear exploding in his heart. His fingertips brushed over a thick brow, dragging stray locks of blonde hair. They continued over a high cheekbone. The parted lips and air breathed out were warm to his touch.

"I don't deserve him," the raven-haired man whispered, repeating Lucrecia's words, then leaned forward and kissed the boy's forehead, the bridge of his nose.

Jacin's breath increased as he grew restless in his sleep, but he didn't awaken. Vincent kissed his cheek, his arm wrapping around the solid form, to bring him closer, to keep him from running away.

Those curved lips were indescribably desirable. He wanted nothing more than to touch them with his own.

"I'm so sorry." Was it a begging of forgiveness for the past, or for what he wanted to do at that moment? He didn't know.

Tears fell over his nose and across his cheek, as he leaned forward. He brushed his lips over Jacin's, over Sephiroth's, and felt as if he was going to die from the pure pleasure of it. Then he kissed those soft lips with a growing passion. Vincent pressed his naked body against the teenager's heated frame.

When the boy's lips moved as well, a tremble went through him along with the rush of hunger. He was lost. It didn't matter that Jacin was still lost in a dream.

A hand loosely gripped his forearm without warning. Caught in the act, Vincent gasped and shoved at the boy's shoulder in a vain effort to get away. Sore pain hit him from the jolt and he almost hollered out, shocked by it. Instead, he groaned weakly. The hand was gripping him still, although more tightly, and trying to pull him back against Jacin's suddenly willing body. Ginger eyes were lazy with sleep, but welcoming.

No! Vincent tried to move, to stop what he had started, but again stilled himself in an instant. Good gods, he was stiff. He would have been astonished if he was able to force himself off of the mattress before a week was up. It was a very good thing he didn't need his job.

Vincent couldn't speak. He was afraid the world would fall apart by just breathing, but that couldn't be helped. Words, whether protest or encouragement, failed him when the boy released his arm and caressed a hand down Vincent's body with a terrible, awesome slowness. But he did moan lightly when the hand found his penis underneath the covers. Jacin stroked him with careful, precise movements, as if afraid he'd hurt what he held. The cock did the exact opposite though, growing in length, hardening in appreciation of his effort.

Fingernails dug into Jacin's shoulders but he didn't even cringe. Vincent shut his eyes tight, holding his breath so that he wouldn't have to hear the hungry sounds. This was pure misery. His groin tightened, reaching a quick climax. He wished it would kill him. But he knew it wouldn't. No, this was his hell.

Jacin pushed the older man onto his back and moved to straddle his groin, keeping a grip on Vincent's cock, presumably to put it inside of himself. Instant tears of passion, misery, shame, fell from the man's crimson eyes and pooled in his ears. He couldn't do this! He just couldn't!

"My gods, please, I can't do this!" he hollered out. All at once, he shoved the boy away from him, Jacin yelping almost humorously from the suddenness, while Vincent twisted his own body away and ended up tumbling over the side of the bed and onto the square rug. An anguished sob escaped him at the immense pain of the fall.

Jacin was suddenly on his knees in front of him, begging in quiet whispers, but Vincent couldn't, or rather refused to hear the words. A hand touched his bare forehead--when had his bandanna been removed?--and he twisted his head away so violently that he recoiled from the new pain. The hand never tried to touch him again, but neither did Jacin move away. They stayed there until Vincent could control his breathing, and his erection had become limp against his sweat-dampened leg.

"Are. . ." the blonde breathed out. There was a long pause before he finally asked with more force, "Do you want me to leave?"

Vincent cracked his eyes open, but couldn't look at the other man. The air seemed thick, non-breathable. Finally, he whispered, "No, I'm leaving."

The agony no longer mattered, as the gunman pushed at the ground. Hands touched his shoulder, but he struck them with his claw as if they were the hands of death. He used the bed as leverage to stand up. His legs trembled as they held his weight, but he just growled at them.

There was the sound of bare feet, as Jacin padded away. A moment later, the boy laid his clothing and gun on the bed. Vincent glared at the retched things and then at Jacin. Ginger eyes went wide for a moment before the boy lowered his gaze to the articles. Vincent could do nothing more than stare. The boy's pale skin flushed endearingly.

A short-lived sob sputtered from Vincent's lips. "My gods. . . I-I. . ." Those softly curved eyes met his. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Obvious confusion played over the teenager's face, but that didn't stop him from murmuring, "I'm the one who should be apologizing." The boy said the words, even though it was clear he had no idea what he was apologizing for. "Let me help you get dressed." Vincent's teeth gritted, making the boy add, "Please."

Vincent blinked. A raven brow raised and then he let out a single bit of haughty laughter. This boy was afraid of losing his job! His prostitute son wanted to keep whoring himself out to any prick that came through the doors. An even harder, more painful laugh burst out of him when he realized that he wanted to be that very prick.

"Gods, what a sick bastard I am," Vincent hissed under his breath. Jacin frowned. The ex-Turk smirked wickedly. "Dear boy, it would be in your best interest if you -never- touched me again."

Ginger eyes widened. Vincent could see the gears working, as he reached down for his pants: was that a threat? Was it a helpful hint? In the end, the blonde boy twisted his head away, then his body, so that he was facing the headboard. Vincent paused his dressing. Now he saw the cane marks on Jacin's backside. They were bright and angry compared to his pale skin. The marks made the older man hungry. For the boy. For his body, his life. For the soul inside of him. He wanted to cut away the disarrayed locks of blonde hair, to see if silver was underneath. And Jacin merely stood there, innocent to the ex-Turk's thoughts.

A tearful sob burst out of him. He raked his claw though his hair, scraping his scalp. Gods, he was mad!

Jacin turned his head back around, questioning. Vincent gritted his teeth. He had to get out before he killed this boy, just to stop him from looking at him that way. There was nothing he could do for him. Lucrecia, how could she have ever asked him to take care of their son, he hissed tearfully in his thoughts. Of course, a few minutes prior, she seemed to have finally gained some sense and had changed her mind.

"I could never take care of you," he admitted unthinkingly, "Never."

The younger man blinked once, taken back. Then his face filled with provoked rage, surely over the whole situation. "What makes you think I need you to take care of me, you fucking arrogant prick?!"

Jacin glared at him. When Vincent said nothing, he huffed a heavy breath of air in dismissal, turned on his heal, and began to storm toward the door, apparently not realizing or not caring that he was naked.

'No!' was the gunman's only thought. If someone had asked him why, the ex-Turk wouldn't have been able to explain why he suddenly grabbed Jacin's wrist. Jacin whipped back around. There was fear in him. Vincent couldn't let him go. Gods, how he wanted him, wanted Sephiroth. If this boy was him, he couldn't let him go.

He was being selfish. Lucrecia was too right. Gods, yes, he was a prick, and it was about time someone said it to his face.

"Let go of me."

Vincent yanked him against his body. If the taller man really wanted to fight, he could have. Instead, he let Vincent claim his mouth. Heat pooled in the older man's groin. He wanted to fuck this man, fully and to the end.

This boy never had to know. Vincent never had to tell him he was most likely Sephiroth, a maddened monster who'd attempted to destroy the world. A man who'd loved and lost more than a person should ever have to bear. He never had to tell him that in that life, he was his father. He could fuck him day after day and Jacin would love it, just as the boy's hardening cock proved.

Jacin moaned. He took Vincent's erection in a hard hand, making the older man groan.

No, this boy never had to know.

He was lost. He knew it. Perhaps that was why a voice in his head screamed at him to stop, some last part of his sanity. Without warning, Vincent again shoved the taller man back a step, breaking the kiss, although he still didn't let his wrist go. Jacin watched him carefully, his breath already heavy. Vincent didn't doubt the boy saw his painful desire, and shouldn't have been surprised when the younger man took a step back towards him. Their cocks rubbed against one another. Oh help him, it felt good.

"Gods, what a sick bastard I am," Vincent again hissed under his breath

Ginger eyes looked to him, and for a second, Vincent thought Jacin knew the truth, knew what he was hiding. "Do you think this is sick?"

"This has nothing to do with you." Actually, it had everything to do with him, but the ex-Turk wasn't about to admit that.

"Quite the contrary, I think it has everything to do with me, as it's my hand that's turning blue." With the dry words, Vincent released the grip his claw had on Jacin. In turn, the blonde man wasted no time in grabbing his wrists and pulling his arm and claw to cross over his head. He scrapped his teeth along and over the raven hair lacing his neck. "Do you think this is sick?"

"Yes," the gunman breathed.

"Why?" The taller man let one large hand hold both of Vincent's wrists in a weak grip. A strong one wasn't necessary. His free hand traveled down the length of the shivering body until it brushed at the hair at Vincent's groin. "Why?"

Unable to help himself, Vincent jutted his hips against the other's stomach. "Because I can't fuck you."

"Why?" The hand had mercy and stroked Vincent's aching erection. "Your body seems to think differently."

"Because I love you. Because I can't!" The hand stopped. Crimson eyes flashed open. Dear gods, had he just said that?! "I didn't mean that! Oh gods, Seph -"

Vincent shut up the second he realized what he was saying. Definitely not for the first time the night, he knew he had to get out of there. Just give Jacin the damn money, and get the hell out of there, his mind yelled at him. Get out before he destroyed both of their lives with his selfish love for a dead man.

The boy, giving him an uncovered queer look, was shoved away, and Vincent forced on his clothing, no longer caring if his body literally fell to pieces from the pain of it. Jacin's eyes never left him. The heavy weight of the money pressed into his chest as he swept his cape on. He fingered the bag, then took it out, and threw it on the bed.

He didn't turn around as he muttered, "That's why I came. Do what you want with it. Don't ever come near me again. I'll do you the same favor."

Then he was storming out of the room, his bruised body aching with every step, but he was merely glad that he didn't faint. He never looked back. Jacin never said a word.

For the first time, when he reached the sidewalk, staggering, he hailed a cab. Jacin was right; he never would have made it a block.

The hallways were dark and empty when he arrived at his apartment. Sunrise was still several hours away. The ex-Turk stalked to his bedroom, collapsed on his bed, pushed his face into the hard mattress, and quickly passed out from a lack of air, not that he really needed it. Thirty years in a coffin hadn't killed him. A scummy mattress certainly wouldn't either.

For the first time in fifty years, not a single nightmare tormented him. In the morning, waking up to a loud knock at the door, he acknowledged that his soul had not found peace. Apparently it hadn't been the dreams after all. Squeezing his eyes shut, burying his head in a pillow to drown out the knocks, he went back to sleep.

The two days that followed were also vacant of nightmares and still full of sleep. The only times he got out of bed were to use the bathroom and to drink all of the alcohol he could keep down. The more he tried to drown himself though, the more something inside of him screamed for life. He couldn't explain it to himself, nor did he really want to try.

More knocks pounded at his door. He ignored them all. Even the ones that made the framework shudder and dust take flight. He didn't care. Never mind that he'd barely had a single knock on his door in the prior eighteen years.

On the eve of the second day, the knocking started up again, along with the threat of using the master key to gain entrance, whether he wished it or not.

Vincent growled, shoving himself onto his wobbly feet. The motions sent his own stale stink up to erode on his nose. He just coughed a bit and staggered out of the bedroom and to the front door, wondering if he'd pissed Loris off. He'd paid his rent, hadn't he? Then again, she probably wouldn't have cared if he never did.

Trembling fingers undid the two bolts and he opened the door. The woman standing before him took one look and one sniff and cringed.

"Ah, please forgive me, Mr. Valentine. I wasn't if sure you were home."

"I'm home," he said after a healthy hack.

"Yeah, ah, well, you see, I'm Mrs. Banke's attorney. Your landlady." There was a severe lack of reaction in Vincent, so the woman shuffled her feet nervously as she dug through her briefcase. Papers started spilling out, accompanied by a small exclamation. Quick reflexes scooped them back in. "Do you mind if I come in. . ." She looked around him and into his abominable apartment, turned noticeably green, and then gave him a small quirk of her colored lips. "Er, maybe. . . Ah, here it is!" She closed the briefcase and handed him a thin envelope, along with a flat package.

Vincent took them with little regard and tossed them inside and onto the floor. "Anything else?"

Brows raised, fear began to show. The woman half-laughed through her uncomfortable smile. "Well, that is the deed to the building. She left it to you, as well as her savings and stocks. Ah, her apartment she left to her cat with the request that you'd, ah, 'care' for him. Yeah. And ah, if you have any questions, my number is on -"

Her words finally managed to work through his foggy brain. "What?! What the hell are you talking about?!"

The ex-Turk took a step forward, and she took a few back. Her skin flushed. "Well, the building. She left it to you."

"No! Loris; what are you saying?!"

Sudden horror and pity took over her face, as she rubbed at the arm holding the briefcase. "Well, she passed away three nights ago. You didn't know?" Vincent stared at her blankly, unable to accept the words. "Sir, I'm sorry. I've been trying to reach you for the last two days. But you've never been home. Or haven't been answer. . ."

His blank expression was lost and he glared pure death at her from behind the sudden unshed tears.

To her credit, she bowed quickly, and said wholeheartedly, "Please forgive me telling you this news to you in such a poor fashion. I'm sorry. She was a wonderful person and a friend."

Crimson eyes were lost behind thick lashes, as he snorted lightly to keep back the overwhelming wail that demanded freedom. Loris wonderful? Then he smiled through his tense face. Yes. Yes, she was actually. Vincent shook his head and looked at the woman's bowed head, the smile lost to reason. He should have checked up on her. He should have known! "But why me? Her daughter and son - why didn't she leave it to them?"

The attorney met his gaze. "Well, I suppose she cared for you, Mr. Valentine. And I assure you that her heirs are already contesting this, but unless you say otherwise, everything of hers is yours."

He couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe any of it! She couldn't have. . . He turned around, picked up the letters in a trembling hand, and shoved them back at her. "Take it. I can't. . ."

She lowered her eyes to what he held, but didn't move in the slightest to take the envelopes back. "Mr. Valentine, she wished it. Why don't you just think about it for a couple of days, all right? She trusted you enough to give you this. . ." Her eyes shifted a quick gaze around the hallway and her lips pursed slightly. Vincent snorted dryly, despite himself. She met his gaze again, a corner of her mouth quirked in apology. "Just think about it. My number is on the card."

Vincent looked down at the unmarked envelopes he held in his hand, as her footsteps grew distant. He was about to turn around and uncover any remaining alcohol hidden away in the cupboards, when the door across from him opened. The emerging, vaguely familiar man was looking directly at him with clear intent and then started forward. Vincent stumbled back a step and started to slam the door shut, but the man stopped it with one solid arm.

"Please, just wait a minute! I've been banging on your door for two days here. Will you just take this?"

The ex-Turk looked down at the offering. It was a small package wrapped in brown paper, and unlabeled like the two envelopes. "What? Is it her cat?"

"Huh?" The man looked at him like he had two heads then shrugged off the dry joke with a shake of his head. "No, some kid gave it to me to give to you. Said you weren't answering your door. I don't know why I agreed, but if you don't take it, I'm going to throw it in the garbage where I should have put it in the first place."

Glaring at each other, Vincent took the package and slammed the door shut, bolting it pointedly. He tossed everything down onto the ugly rust-colored carpet and didn't look at any of it for over four days. By the fifth day, he'd run out of liquor and was drying himself off from the first shower he'd taken in a week, all in preparation of getting some more 'liquid numb'. Crimson eyes eyed the package before he finally trudged over to it, ripped off the paper, and stared down at the bag of money he'd left with Jacin. He looked inside and pulled out the small slip of white paper. Scripted quickly in ink, it said:

  

Dear Sir,

My body may be for sale, but whatever you may  
think, I am not. I don't know you, and I don't  
pretend to know why you gave this money to me.  
But all I can say is that the very sight of it  
sickens me. You're too much like my father.

Do what you want with it.

Regards,  
Jacin

PS: I took out the price for the night. Forgive me, but it's just business.

  

Vincent stared at it and for the first time in a long while, he laughed. Really laughed. Not because it was funny, but because he really didn't want to cry any more.

  

  

**Chapter 5: Just Let Me Forget You**

  

~~~One year later~~~

  

Wiping the sweat off of his brow, Vincent stepped back to admire their handiwork. With the sun setting, and most of the light going with it, the wall's differences in color had become difficult to distinguish, but he could still tell they'd gotten a fair amount of work done that day.

He looked over to his friends sitting together, enjoying the evening with some beers and conversation. Barret had an arm wrapped around Cloud, and they sat together on a stack of lumber. Tifa and Yuffie sat in front of them on the grass, engrossed in whatever Cloud was talking about.

Vincent was too far to hear what they were saying. But their laughter carried over. It was infectious stuff and made him smile. The smile still touching his lips, he looked back to the wall, enjoying the peace that could be found in a bucket of paint and a brush.

In the beginning, the loss of both women, Lucretia and Loris, had drowned him in misery. But then, what had started as fixing up an unhinged shutter had turned into a goal and, in turn, a small warmth. With each passing minute and accomplishment on the apartment building, eventually life as a whole became, well, bearable. Lucrecia and Loris' voices slowly become only memories that fluttered in when he glimpsed something that reminded him of them.

His dreams let him sleep without waking up to soaked blankets, even if they were not entirely peaceful. He barely even remembered them when he awoke. He preferred it that way. Allowing his mind to wander, even subconsciously, was a dangerous thing, especially allowing it to wander to certain silver and blonde haired men.

With his narrow focus, Vincent had managed to renew the life he had neglected. Eventually he didn't hamper the occasional visits from Tifa, and then from Barret and Cloud, and then finally from Yuffie. His old friends greeted him as if he hadn't been dismissing them straight out for the previous twenty years. Too much was between them to do otherwise. A group of people that lived and died together, repeatedly, couldn't be forgotten. As the months passed, he wondered what kind of idiocy had made him reject them in the first place.

However, in the back of his mind, he always knew the tranquility wouldn't last forever. The passing of time brought another wrinkle to his friends' faces and none to his own. But they didn't seem to mind. He tried not to.

Nevertheless, he'd thought he'd had a reasonable amount of control over his life. He'd thought he was forgetting. After all, the constant work brought blessed unawareness of who was out in the world, probably living only blocks away from him, but he didn't know for certain as he had avoided that end of town as one would the stench of a rotting corpse.

And then he saw Jacin again, months after their first encounter. Actually, it was the other man who had first seen him apparently.

Walking to work, when Vincent finally noticed the set of eyes on him, he had no idea how long the blonde-haired man had been watching him. Even after the months, the thousands of passing faces, the distance now stretched out between them by the street, Vincent knew his face in an instant.

Before that moment, he'd thought he'd forgotten. He'd thought he'd moved on. He'd tried so fucking hard to move on. That moment had proven him so wrong. In one moment to the next, he knew that all of his effort to forget had been in vain.

His breath had quickened. His heart had pounded painfully. His pale skin had flushed. If the other man had noticed, he'd failed to show any sympathy. Just as quickly as the connection brought instant turmoil to Vincent, Jacin had torn his gaze away and hurried down the street, back to 'his' side of town. Vincent had stared after him until his eyes lost the other man in the crowd. And then some.

After that day, he'd often caught himself searching the crowd, but eventually, the habit stopped. Just let him be, he'd tell himself. Just forget.

Eventually, thankfully, his friends, the tasks at hand made him forget again. He wanted to forget. He hated the constant pain, the knowledge of who was out there. He wanted to forget everything. And for the most part, he'd succeeded.

Wiping his hand and claw on well-worn jeans, Vincent welcomed the approaching woman with the barest hint of a smile. The rushed job barely complete, a bottle invaded his space and he gripped it with a murmured, "Thank you". The chilled alcohol cooled the overworked muscles of his hand, as the droplets worked on forming a paste with the dust still caked on his skin.

Tifa grinned and slumped onto the ground next to his feet, shoving boards and paint chips away with her boots to make some room. "I know you hate me saying it, Vincent, but I think you'd have been better off keeping the cash than this place."

"You're right," the gunman sighed out, habitually swirling the contents in his bottle. He leaned against the brick wall of his building and surveyed the steady stream of people. Their faces seemed purposeful, whether they were leaving or returning home for the evening. "An extremely well worn out argument. One that's rather pointless now, I might add, again."

"Yeah. . . Just saying for my peace of mind, I suppose," she murmured with a wink before she practically sucked half of the liquor out of her bottle in one fluid drag.

"Hmm," he sighed out with a weak smile, sitting down on a tree stump a few feet away. "Well, it was either that or have Loris' heirs banging at my door every day for the rest of eternity. The choice was an easy one, as far as I'm concerned."

"Well, after too many months of discovering nooks and crannies better left hidden, I suppose the place is shaping up." Tifa burst out laughing. "Man, I must have been -really- drunk to have ever agreed to help out."

Vincent grinned at his friend, hiding the unstoppable cringe underneath. The past was not something he wanted to be reminded of after a day of stressing his muscles to exhaustion and relishing every minute of it. Smiling back cheerfully, Tifa clearly didn't know the pain her own memories produced in the ex-Turk. And to keep her smiling, he intended to keep her oblivious.

Nonetheless, the place -had- changed remarkably. The pretty patterns of spider webs were missing along with the caked dust. A color more agreeable to the eyes than rusty-orange replaced dingy, stained carpets, graced the floors. Despite the noise, soon, his tenants had begun to understand his efforts and greeted him as if they hadn't been mutually avoiding each other for years. With every new wall and foot of carpet, with every can of paint and plaster, the place covered more and more of his memories of Loris. As much as he hated to admit it, it made the passage of time easier. And it was healthier that drinking every bottle he could get his hands on. Of course, with rusted nails waiting to sink themselves into an unsuspecting foot, rotted floorboards, and toxins abound, that might have been a matter of opinion.

After tossing the supplies that littered the ground into a bucket, the gunman and Tifa walked over to join their friends. He took the new bottle of beer Yuffie handed him and leaned against the side of the building.

After the offering, she let out a bark of laughter that continued in the same breath with, "you mean he just kept on running? And then 'blamo'!"

"Yeah." Barret shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Couldn't believe it. Covered head to toe in paint. I said, 'Get your scrawny ass back here, so I can show it who's boss!' Turned his head and gawked at me with these huge eyes and plowed right into a light pole. Knocked himself out cold."

"Good gods, Barret, you're too much of a tyrant to those poor kids," the ex-Turk said with a laugh, pointedly shrugging off his own bitter days as a Turk. "Their summer breaks are more stressful than when they're in school."

Barret snorted.

Laughing blue eyes left Vincent as Cloud looked up at his partner, shaking his head, then shifted his gaze back to the gunman. "Yeah, and I'm the one who has to listen to him bitch about them quitting after a week. 'Lazy gods-damned teenagers! Ain't worth the minimum wage I pay um!'" The blonde finished the 'bitching' with a slam of his fist against his other hand and then burst out laughing, while Barret's dark skin turned a few shades darker. "Well, maybe if we paid them a decent wage, they wouldn't -"

The words turned silent by the large hand that had been resting along Cloud's shoulders. Barret leaned over and whispered something only meant for Cloud's ears. His eyes considerably more round, Cloud purred a laugh through the hand, leaning into the larger man, before he shoved him away. Vincent merely grinned at their exchange. The pain of watching them together, their happiness in one another, had vanished long before.

Barret dropped his hand to Cloud's upper arm, and caressed the bare skin absentmindedly. "Well, yeah, so the kid was just lying there like a dead dog. I had to pick'um up and put him down on the couch in my office, worked some materia over on'um, and he was quitting the moment his eyes opened. No sorry. No thanks. No nothin'. The honest truth, I told Spikey here that that boy was nothing but lazy. But, no, 'Hire him!' he says."

Cloud groaned. "You're the one who wasn't looking where you were going. -You- plowed right into the poor kid! I saw it happen." He looked to Vincent with imploring eyes. "Vincent, I swear I've never seen a kid turn so white so fast underneath so much green paint."

"Well, what's he doing standin' around, not workin'?"

Groaning again, Cloud rubbed his face into his hands. "He was spotting for me. You know how that works, don't you? He stands there, watches me, and gets me anything I need."

"Yeah, and I know just what he's lookin' at!"

"Oh Barret," Yuffie chided with a grin.

Tifa chuckled, "Just ignore him, really, Vincent. All purr and no bite, that one." She teasingly ignored Barret's glare and huffed out, "I'm so glad I never had kids of my own! Man, I tell you, I think we need to hire some help for our business. It's just getting to be too much for Yuffie and me. This place is growing -so- fast. And with these gangs springing up everywhere, kids -have- to learn how to defend themselves.

"Yeah," Yuffie grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest, "And their parents have no clue how themselves, not with ShinRa 'protecting' them their whole lives, anyway."

The long-haired brunette woman sighed, adding quietly, "People are forgetting. . ."

Vincent watched Tifa's profile for a moment, considering her final words. Then he took a couple of swallows from his bottle.

With every new generation, people -were- forgetting how close they had come to all of their ends. But truth be told, that didn't surprise Vincent. People rarely learned from the past. Not to mention, humanity couldn't survive without rules. While Reeve's carefree leadership had brought people comfort in the beginning, it was now losing respect. Yes, benevolence had power in its own right. But without stiff consequences, people who wanted power over others were willing do just about anything to get it, short of killing themselves in the process. The world was going downhill fast. Everyone could feel it, but most merely waited to see what would happen. That didn't surprise him either.

"Speaking of which..." Yuffie stood up and stretched. Her slight shape had barely changed in the past 20 years, despite having three children. Her job as a martial arts trainer, in the business Yuffie and Tifa had started together, had surely helped with that. "I can't forget my obligations. It's been fun, but my kids are probably clawing at the walls waiting for dinner. That includes the hubby." With a grin, she waved, she added, "See you all next week."

They responded in kind and watched after her as she grabbed her bag and headed across the street and down the sidewalk.

"Yeah, it's time for us to head home too." Cloud said, both him and Barret standing up together. Barret tossed their empty bottles in the nearby garbage can. "We're starting a new project across town tomorrow and need to get up way too early."

Barret grinned at Vincent and Tifa. "See ya next week. Don't go drinkin' the rest of those by yourselves."

After saying their goodbyes, the two remaining people watched the couple walk down the sidewalk and out of view.

Watching after them, Vincent felt Tifa eyeing him. A clear gesture of avoidance, he then dropped his gaze to the empty bottle, absentmindedly reading the list of chemicals he had willingly consumed. It had been a long day. He wanted the warmth of her company, but preferably silent company. Gods knew that wasn't her style though.

"Well, it's just the two of us again, two of the most eligible people in Rocket Town. So how many marriage proposals did you reject -today-?"

Vincent smirked and leaned back to rest on his sole hand. "Oh, two or three, I suppose. One was even willing to do my laundry, no questions asked, but I had to let them go."

"Amateur," Tifa chided playfully, "I counted around six for me just this afternoon. But I had to turn them all down since they were only three feet tall. Not to mention, none of them were of drinking age. How could I marry someone who couldn't mope in a smoke-filled room with me, drinking poisons that could knock out a Chocobo with one gulp? Kids."

"Kids," Vincent repeated, offering her a grin. "Well, I better get upstairs. My roommate is surely getting rather pissed at his lack of supper."

Brown eyes met crimson. Then those eyes widened. "Oh, no you don't! I've fallen for that one too many times now."

The woman was standing up, as Vincent hid his face, trying his best to destroy the escaping burst of laughter. Then after clearing his throat, he stood up as well, composed, but inwardly amused and slightly scared for his own future health when he got upstairs. "You -know- he listens to you."

"On man, Vincent, can't you just show him who's boss?! I mean, you were a Turk, for gods' sake," she hissed at him, brushing off paint chips and dust from her hip-hugging pants, "You must have learned ways of dealing with this type of situation!"

"I'm outmatched, Tifa. It takes a lot for me to admit that."

"Oh, bullshit! I'm telling you, Vince, you're a push over. Just look into those beady eyes and say, 'I am master. You are slave.' Really! Is he still getting into the fridge?" Vincent nodded. "See! You provide him with a free place to live, and all of the food he could possibly want. Just tell it to him straight out. Threaten him if you have to!"

"You know he won't listen."

Tifa turned and looked directly into his eyes, demanding his complete attention. "Look, find some neutral ground. Try scratching him behind the ears. He likes that." Vincent displayed his scratch-laced arm and she looked down and sighed. "Vincent, I'm not stepping foot up there until you can work this out. You've had him for a year, haven't you? I think it's time to make the peace."

"He hates me."

"He doesn't hate you. You hate him." When Vincent's gaze remained unbelieving, a growl exploded out of her. "I'm not going up there, damn it! Now, goodnight. I have to go home and pass out -alone- on my bed and wake up and do it all again tomorrow. Just be happy you have someone."

"You can have him."

The woman growled again, grabbed his collar, yanked him down, gave him a quick kiss, and stormed off down the street, saying over her shoulder, "Goodnight, my friend. Give the feline a kiss for me."

"You want me to lose an eye," he baited in one last effort, but she kept on walking, so he added with a sigh, "Sleep well."

Vincent entered the building, trudged up the stairs, and entered his apartment. The hiss from under the couch was his only greeting. He sighed. Any remaining humor instantly drained out of him.

He'd taken the creature into his place because the memories brought out by visiting Loris' apartment only brought him pain. By now, however, he was nearly positive he should have left it there to rot.

He removed his grimy vest, laying it on a chair, and went directly into the kitchen, stalking to the fridge. His human hand peeled off the protective, cat-retardant tape keeping it closed and rummaged around for the leftovers from the diner down the street. Soon enough, he felt a pair of beady eyes burning into his back.

"Just show him who's boss. . ." Vincent snorted. "Yeah right."

  

  

One by one, he forced his leaden feet to move. He almost counted the rhythm, trying to keep his mind awake. But he didn't. He feared he'd forget where he was going if he did.

One face hung in his mind. It was a face that brought out such rage and utter confusion, that he didn't even know how to start putting it all together, but he nonetheless was sure the man attached to the face would help him. She'd always told him he would.

The only thing he could do was keep moving. Well, that and clutch at the terrible pain in his side, in a vain effort to stop the warm flow of blood. Only the gazes of eyes touched him. No one made an effort to stop him. Or help. Not that he would have accepted that help. Perhaps they could see that, and that was why they merely stared blatantly, some practically tripping over themselves, as they poured down the street. Then again, maybe they just didn't want the trouble. It was supper time, after all. He didn't blame them. He barely noticed them.

He staggered down vaguely familiar streets, but he had never been able to forget them over the course of a year. The old buildings themselves were a source of shaking heads and turned backs in the city of Rocket Town. Most would have preferred them gone, except for the people who lived there, of course.

When he looked up at the building, his delirium only allowed him minimal surprise. The place almost looked... decent, a lot better than he remembered. The frown barely reached his face. Was it under new management, he wondered absentmindedly, almost manically.

By the time he got to the right floor, he was crawling up the stairs more than he was walking up them. Fingers picked up the faintest traces of dust as he palmed the hallway wall for support. The door he was searching for appeared in front of him, almost as if by magic, and left him wondering how he'd gotten there.

Holding his breath and the frame of the door with a trembling hand, he knocked on the thin wood. The sound rattled his ears, making him cringe. Behind the door, a chair scrapped the floor and footsteps started towards him. He let go of his breath, relieved. His body jolted when he heard a crash and then a loud hiss.

"Get the hell out of my dessert, you gods damned fucking cat!"

Another few obscenities penetrated the door as several locks were undone, before the door was swung open. He raised his head and saw haunting, wide crimson eyes. Beautiful. The eyes were just like he remembered. Just like in his dreams.

"Gods..." Vincent Valentine whispered.

The man smiled, although he wasn't sure if the expression had reached his face. The world melted away.

The blonde man fell against Vincent's chest, making him stumble backwards. If anything, the other man had gained muscle, and along with it, weight. And with him being taller than Vincent, Jacin was quite heavy. Despite his desire to keep his hands away, to keep his promise to himself, to everyone, he looped them around Jacin before he fell off of him, and dragged him inside a bit. After all, letting the man collapse into a heap on the floor wouldn't have helped either of them. He strained to lay him down carefully.

Then the ex-Turk stopped and listened. He heard no one else, no one in pursuit. He only heard Jacin's shallow, pained breaths and his own heavy ones.

As he listened, he inspected the other man, trying to figure out why he'd collapsed. The reason was immediately apparent. Blood drenched the taller man's shirt and pants. Vincent's heart raced. He lifted the man's t-shirt and saw the blackened bullet hole that still oozed blood. Quickly, he pushed the man onto his side and was slightly relieved when he saw a bullet hole in his back, and then laid him back down. He didn't have to dig it out. But that also meant that the flesh at his back was torn viciously.

Standing up, he slammed the door shut, locked it, and immediately went for his rifle across the room. The antique thing just peeked out from underneath a pile of newspapers, forgotten. He grabbed the stock and moved back, falling to his knees beside the unconscious man. At once, he closed his eyes and called for the energy from the materia embedded in the steel frame. Warmth filled him, then left, as it was transferred to the younger man. It took his own energy along with it. His breath left him. He held the command beyond the point where his cells screamed for mercy. It was probably overkill, but gods, he was terrified.

When he opened his eyes, the younger man was still unconscious, but his breaths had become deep and relaxed in his sleep. His head swimming, Vincent had a difficult time preventing himself from joining him on the floor.

Vincent put down his rifle and inspected the wound more closely. It was nothing more than a scar now, but the man was still a mess. Blood was everywhere, including on his floor. He knew he should have cleaned it up, but the idea of touching the man, of peeling off the other man's clothes, of running a washcloth over hard muscle made him feel nauseous.

Then crimson eyes couldn't leave the ghastly white face he'd tried to forget again since that day on the sidewalk. He'd thought he'd succeeded. But now looking at him, Vincent knew he'd forgotten nothing.

Without thinking, as if his other senses couldn't make the younger man real, he reached out a hand. When the pale skin of it came into view though, just before contact was made on the man's soft cheek, Vincent sucked in his breath and instead raked it through his own unbound hair. His breath was heavy, his brow sweating. Good gods, he had just wanted to forget! He had thought it was over. For the first time in over fifty years, his life had begun to move forward, slowly, admittedly, but forward nonetheless.

Still unable to draw his own gaze away, he noticed that Jacin's hair had grown longer. The tips reached just below the place where his nipples were hidden by his t-shirt. His eyes brought back to that region, he considered cleaning the younger man up again. Visions of stroking a wet wash cloth over the tight stomach made his breath heavy. He choked as quickly as the thought crossed his mind. He couldn't touch him. Ever.

Despair filled him at the whole of his reaction. Nothing had changed.

The longer the gunman watched the sleeping man, the more uneasy he felt. Why had he come here? To him, of all people. And who in gods' names had shot him? A turf battle came to mind, but that was shrugged off. Surely if Jacin had joined one of the many emerging gangs, he would have been cared for by his fellow members. It had to be something personal. Or hell, just an accident.

"But why did he come to me?"

He had to move. He had to get away. This was all too sudden. He hadn't even spoken a word to Jacin in a year! Yes, he had to get away for everyone's sakes. He stalked away from the unconscious man, and did the only thing he could think of doing:

Vincent sat down at the table with his back to Jacin, put his dessert the cat had half-eaten on the floor for the tabby to finish off, and forced down the rest of his cold supper.

  

  

**Chapter 6: The Sick Things You Say**

  

  
It hurt to move. His body felt like one huge cramp. His back hurt, his head, his stomach, his legs. Jacin even found a bit of pain in his toes, leaving him wondering if he'd stubbed them along with every other part of his body.

He tried to blink the grogginess out of his eyes so that he could see his surroundings. Normally, when he woke up, he wasn't lying on something so hard. Normally. He realized immediately, upon a quick observation of the place, that he didn't have a clue where he was. That wasn't quite normal either. Straining his head the best he could, he let his gaze devour everything in the room, trying to pick up some clue as to what had happened.

When he caught a glimpse of the glaring red eyes staring at him, his body jolted. The jolt brought pain which made him gasp. He hissed under his breath, "Good gods." The words barely made it out. Man, his mouth was dry. In fact, his whole body felt like burning, dried out sand. He didn't want to move anymore. At all. Even breathing felt awful.

He could feel the other man's eyes on him as he laid there, as he tried to remember what he was doing in Vincent Valentine's apartment. At least that's where he assumed he was.

He was there because... He wracked his brain, which only seemed to want to malfunction.

Then he heard rustling, footsteps, banging, water running, and finally more footsteps to his side. The sounds were grated on his ears and, in turn, his brain.

A strong metal hand wedged under his shoulders and yanked. Pain exploded everywhere. The other man had only raised him a few inches, but surely he was trying to kill him.

"What the fuck?!" Jacin hissed under his breath.

"You're dehydrated. Drink some of this."

The cup was placed to his lips. It tasted like water, but it felt like fire going down. Or perhaps the fire was just coming from his throat. The first swallow brought a coughing fit, which compounded every pain indefinitely.

After nearly a minute, when he'd quieted down, Vincent said in a low voice, "You lost a lot of blood too. Too much. You're going to feel like shit for a while."

Blood? The cup was placed to his mouth again, and he absentmindedly took small sips. It was easier this time around and he could tell his body wanted it badly. So he drank and thought about what Vincent had said. It jogged his memory well enough. He remembered then the bullet in his gut and the running. He remembered the men's hollers as he sprinted away, his adrenalin temporarily extinguishing the immense pain otherwise draining his strength. If they hadn't been so far away, if he hadn't been running already... How had he lost them? He couldn't remember. Probably just by melting into the crowd. And then... He'd come here. Because...

Vincent pulled the cup away when he wouldn't drink anymore and laid him back down.

"Are you all right?"

What kind of stupid question was that? And then he realized there was wetness on his face from tears that had fallen and he wiped at it with trembling hands. "Yeah."

After a moment, Vincent stated, "I know you're going to hate me for this, but we should get you moving so you don't stiffen up. I healed you, but you should try to eat something, to rebuild your strength. And... get cleaned up... maybe..."

Jacin blinked at the other man, refocusing on his face, watching Vincent study his body. The other man hadn't changed much in the past year, physically or, apparently, emotionally. He remembered then why he'd avoided Vincent for the past year, as well as why he couldn't forget him, as if his dreams would let him.

"I guess..." the blonde man mumbled, preemptively cringing.

When the gunman shifted his own position to behind Jacin's head and put his hands under his shoulders again, he waited for the pain so that he could cry out, but while he was stiff and sore, the other man moved him slowly enough that it didn't feel like he was trying to kill him. Nonetheless, he groaned way more than Vincent huffed.

It was then, his head bobbing down, that he realized how much blood was on him. His blue shirt was almost black with the stuff. His pants had fared no better. Even his shoes were discolored.

"You're all right. Just don't look at it."

Why was this man talking to him like he was a kid? Maybe because he was hyperventilating? Tears appeared again, but he forced them back. "I can't die yet... I have to..."

"You're not dying. I swear it. Let's just get you up and moving."

He nodded more enthusiastically than he'd intended, but he apparently wasn't fully in control of himself.

Vincent grabbed one of his hands. He took the cue to try to get to his own feet with Vincent's aid. Luckily the pain was less than it'd been before. Not by much, but enough that he wasn't begging for mercy. Once standing, the hand wrapped around his waist. The claw took his arm and wrapped it over the older man's shoulders. Less than gracefully, they made their way to the wooden chair in the distance. Once seated, he could see the floor and all of the dried blood. What a mess. "Sorry, I... I'll clean it up."

The raven-haired man followed his gaze. "Don't worry about it. I've cleaned up worse."

Jacin remembered then that he'd heard about the man being a Turk at one time. Turks had been assassins, henchmen, or some such thing. He swallowed and tried to remember why he'd come here in particular. It didn't take him long:

"I'm sorry I came here. It's just... You tried to help me before. So I..."

When Jacin looked away and offered no more words of clarification, Vincent took a step back and said, "Don't worry about it... I hope you like leftovers."

The blonde man snorted, although it pained him. "I didn't come here for your cooking, if that's what you're thinking."

"That's good," Vincent huffed out with the smallest bit of laughter.

What did Vincent sound like when he laughed, he wondered, surely delirious, but nonetheless breaking a smile onto his face as he looked at the gunman again.

When he realized they were both quietly watching one another, it was Vincent who first broke the contact. The other man appeared so overwhelmed that Jacin couldn't help the tingling that suddenly paraded in his stomach. This was why he'd come to Vincent. Because, out of all of the people in the world, this was the only person who seemed to give a damn about him, even though he had no real understanding of why... Not to mention, the man had specific talents he needed.

In watching him, the confusing words from a year ago flashed again in his mind, never to be forgotten:

' "Because I love you. Because I can't! I didn't mean that! Oh gods, Seph - " '

Jacin continued his unapologetic stare, trying to figure the other man out, trying to figure everything out. The latter was easier.

The gunman cleared his throat and started walking away. "I'll get you something to eat."

The younger man watched after him, but unable to garner any more insight, he said over the clattering of dishes, "Maybe I'll get cleaned up?"

"Okay, ah, there's a towel in the closet next to the bathroom."

"Okay, thanks." He pulled his gaze off of Vincent and looked around for the closet and the bathroom. It was just across the room. Grunting, he stood up and made his way. When the noise from the kitchen stopped, he glanced over and caught Vincent once again starting at him. He knew men's reactions. He'd been experiencing men's reactions for years. When Vincent looked at him that way, he knew the other man wanted him. But without even going over there, he knew for a fact, from experience, that the older man wouldn't act on those desires. Would refuse any advances from him.

Vincent jerked his gaze away, but it'd already had its effect on Jacin. The blonde man groaned at the renewed dizziness and fought his way to the bathroom and the closet to the side of it, and into the shower, carefully stripping bloodied garments off and throwing them into the garbage. Hopefully Vincent had some more generosity and some clothes in his size.

The water felt fantastic. He drank his fill as it fell, not caring if it was hot. When the blood washed off with some scrubbing, he fingered his new scar. It was another one to add to the mix. How his body survived everything the world threw at it, he didn't know.

Of course, without Vincent, he probably wouldn't have survived today. Or had it been yesterday?

He got out of the shower, dried off carefully, wrapped the towel around his waist, and stepped out of the bathroom.

As he emerged, Vincent stopped right outside of the bedroom door and looked at him. All of him. With a towel wrapped around his waist, it was hardly difficult. His body felt the flame of the other man's desire. Why didn't Vincent fuck him already and get it over with? As if Jacin would stop him. He felt like saying as much, but something stopped him, probably the certainty of rejection.

"I put some clothes on the bed. They should fit. You can take them with you when you go. You don't have to bring them back."

The blonde man blinked. He was already being dismissed. "But I came here for your help..."

"And I think I have."

"That's not what I meant. I mean, you have helped me. But I still need your help."

Vincent's sudden tense body made him think the man might toss him out at that moment, in nothing more than a towel. "Jacin, you need to get dressed and leave. I made you something to eat, if you want it."

Jacin looked to where the gunman's claw pointed on the table. The mishmash of food didn't look all that appetizing, but he'd been warned about that. "But-"

"Just get dressed and leave."

"But they'll kill me if they find me."

"Who? Some guy you fucked? Your pimp?"

The younger man instantly bristled at the words as much as at the fact that Vincent radiated jealousy. "Seriously, what the fuck do you think you know about me?! Yeah, I fuck men and women, and anything else they throw at me, but that's none of your business. Why do you act like you have some say in anything I do?!"

Vincent's jaw was clenched so hard that Jacin fear he'd bust it apart. That stopped him in his tracks. He reminded himself that he really had no idea what the hell was up with this man. He also reminded himself that he was butting heads with a trained killer which probably wouldn't help his desire to stay alive.

"I just... I thought you wanted to help me. I came to you for help, because... because I thought you would. I thought you wanted..."

The ex-Turk noticeably relaxed, just enough to make sure Jacin knew he wasn't about to kill him. His red eyes burned. "Please... Just get dressed."

Heat flushed his skin and his groin. Maybe he wasn't good at reading this man at all.

Jacin started forward and past the other man, into the bedroom. He jolted when Vincent slammed the door shut behind him. He turned to look. He almost expected to see him there, panting, a hard-on raging. Instead, Vincent had left him alone. He was left both disappointed and irritated.

The clothes on the bed consisted of a black t-shirt and a pair of black sweat pants. They were laid out neatly and most likely fit. However, was the man expecting him to go commando? Not that he hadn't before, but sweatpants weren't exactly the articles to be doing so in. He glanced around and walked to the dresser against the wall. He opened up a couple of drawers and found some briefs. They looked to be a bit tight, but he'd survive it.

Closing the drawer, he looked up and noticed a picture frame that was turned backwards. He frowned at it and then at the door. It was the only picture he'd seen in the place. He couldn't help his curiosity. After putting the underwear under an arm, careful fingers grabbed the metal frame, brought it to himself, and turned it around.

The woman he saw there, her face... He almost dropped it. Instant renewed dizziness washed over him, surely not helped by his lack of food and proper rest.

It was her.

How long had he dreamt about her? Seen her in his mind? Heard her sweet songs?

She didn't have a name. But he'd known her ever since he could remember. Even now, she came to him while he slept. She was the most sorry, loving person he'd ever known. But she was just a figment of his imagination. An eventual replacement for the mother he'd lost. She wasn't real. She couldn't be real.

What the hell was going on? Who was she? And who the fuck was Vincent Valentine that he had her picture on his dresser?!

Studying it, it occurred to him how old it was. It was yellowed and no longer flat, even behind the glass. There were deformations that looked like... drops of water had hit it. Teardrops.

Jacin put the frame back on the dresser, not wanting to touch it any longer. Fear eroded his sensibilities. He stumbled backwards and got dressed as quickly as he could, and was out the door, barefoot, heading to the next one that would lead him out.

"Jacin!"

Perhaps he'd hoped Vincent would just ignore him and let him go. After all, the gunman had told him to get out just a few minutes before. He wasn't ready for a confrontation. "I'm sorry, you're right, I should go." He tried moving forward again.

Vincent took a step towards him.

The younger man stopped, unable to help himself, finally more than ready for answers. He turned around and yelled much louder than he'd intended. "Seriously, who the fuck are you?! Why..." He took a step towards the other man and pointed towards the bedroom door. "Why do you have a picture of her?! She... she's not real! She's just some fucking bitch who won't leave me alone, no matter how much I tell her I'm all right!"

Vincent stared at him, wide-eyed, as if Jacin had lost his mind.

Surely he had. He raked a hand through long blonde locks. "Look, I don't want to know. I don't want to know any of this! I'm sorry I came here. I should have went somewhere else, a fucking hospital, but..." Reminding him why he did come here, memories of his father's henchmen came to mind. "I'm sorry. Just forget I came here. I can handle it on my own."

On his own meant more running away. But he could do that. He just couldn't stay in one place so long again. He turned back around to head out the door.

"Jacin, wait!"

He should have kept going. He should have run. Why didn't he run?

"I'll help you." The other man took a couple steps forward. "I will. Just don't leave."

This was being to feel familiar. How long did he have until Vincent tried to shove him out the door again? Knowing the gunman, it'd only take a tiny shove, a minuscule bit on interest on his part. Vincent couldn't stand him and wanted every piece of him at the same moment. This wouldn't last. Jacin knew he should have run.

Instead, he stood there and listened to Vincent walk up to him.

"Don't leave." The words had more conviction this time, but that could still change so quickly. The gunman stood behind him, close but not too close. Jacin could hear his heavy breaths. He realized his own matched.

When they only stood there, after nearly a minute, Vincent touched his shoulder with a hot hand. He instantly tensed. The hand dropped.

"Look... I'll try to explain. But it's not going to make any sense."

The blonde man turned his head to study the slightly shorter man. "As if that's anything new?"

Vincent held his gaze for only a moment before he looked away, perhaps out the window, into the darkness of the night. "But first, tell me what you want from me."

Jacin frowned, then said, "Okay." He had the feeling the whole affair was going to be exhausting, so he suggested, "Maybe we should sit down for this?"

"Okay," the gunman said slowly, pointing to the couch and chair.

He tried to walk normally, but with the adrenaline dissipating again, his body reminded him of how poor of a state it was in. He sat down on the couch and Vincent sat on the adjoining chair. Crimson eyes were on him for several seconds before he lifted his gaze to him and said blandly, "I want you to kill my father."

The last thing in the world that he was expecting was Vincent's straight-out laughter. Again, he had the feeling that he didn't have a clue in the world as to what was going on between them.

"Why is that funny?"

"It's not... It's just... so fucking hilarious." But Vincent wasn't laughing anymore. Instead, he looked like the most miserable person on the planet.

"Vincent..." The older man cringed at the single word and Jacin faltered. He looked away, unable to watch the other man, but finally, he looked at him again and begged, "Please, tell me what's going on here. I don't think any of this is ever going to go anywhere until you let me in on it."

The ex-Turk huffed a bit a laughter, a trace of smile on his face. Ebony locks played over his face as he shook his head. "I don't even know where to start. I don't even think I should tell you. It just... doesn't matter."

"Are you kidding me? You're making it matter so much that we can't even look at each other without something going wrong."

Again, Vincent huffed, but didn't deny it.

"You said before...   Are you afraid I'm going to judge you or something? Well, I probably will, but I don't think it can be any worse than this."

Vincent slowly shook his head, gazing at him, burning him with his beautiful red eyes, eyes he knew too well, for far too many years. The intensity in them made him look away. Whatever craziness the world had put between them, if it hadn't been there, they would have fucked many times over. Or perhaps, not at all.

"The picture..." Vincent started.   Jacin looked back to him at the words. "I knew her... I even asked her to marry me." A smile graced his lips, making him more beautiful than he already was, almost painfully so. "But she said no. Her name was Lucrecia. She was the mother of Sephiroth."

"Sephiroth? The one who tried to destroy the planet 20 years ago?"

"Yes."

"Okay... With all of your past tense talk, I take it she's dead? So why is she in my dreams?"

"She's in your dreams?"

"Yes, I mean, I have these nightmares all the time. People dying. Killing. Of war. Horrible things.   And I don't know where they come from. And I see her there. She tries to comfort me." Jacin smiled sadly and huffed a bit of laughter. "I mean, she sings to me. She's been in my mind ever since I can remember. She just doesn't seem to understand that she can't make it go away. Even I can't make it go away. Any of it." Jacin looked back to Vincent, hearing the conviction in his own voice, he stated, "But with your help, I can stop it at least some of it. I can make that fucking bastard dead. He killed my mother."

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter." He didn't want to say the words and was glad when Vincent didn't press him. Jacin looked back to him and studied face, admitting to himself what'd always been in the back of his mind for the previous year. "You're there too. Most of the time, you look like a demon, but I know it's you. I knew you even before I knew what you looked like. Even before we met." He shook his head. "What does that mean?"

Vincent only stared at him to the point that he wanted to shake him hard. After a minute, the gunman looked away and refused to look back, no matter how much he stared.

"You said... You said you'd tell me the truth."

"Yeah..."

"If you just started... Put some fucking effort into it."

The raven-haired man put his hands onto his face, covering it. "I'm just... I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

Jacin shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know why you're sorry."

Vincent slid his hands down his face and looked at him, really looked. It made Jacin's pale cheeks turn pink. "Sephiroth was my son."

The younger man hadn't been expecting that and the notion shocked him. What kind of crappy parents had Vincent and Lucrecia been that they'd created a child hell bent on killing everyone on the planet? And more importantly, what did any of it have to do with him?

"People aren't supposed to remember. The lifestream, it takes your memories away when you die... Or at least covers them so you can't remember. Whatever was done in the past, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't you. If Sephiroth hadn't had the life he had, he wouldn't have even done any of it. He wasn't born to be a killer. The world made him one."

"Wait...   What are you saying? What... Are you trying to tell me I'm Sephiroth?"

"If she hadn't been in your mind, I don't think you'd be this way. In this situation. You were supposed to forget."

"This way?!" Jacin had to fight against the sudden need for physical aggression.   "What do you think you know about my life? My shitty dreams have nothing to do with why my father fucking murdered my mother!"

Jacin shook his head, drawing dizziness through it.   Gods, what was Vincent saying? He couldn't be Sephiorth. He had his own hell to live in. He didn't need to be a monster at the same time! And...

"And...   And you're trying to tell me you're my father? That's what all this is about? Good gods! What the fuck! And you... We... You knew and we..."

Jacin stared, couldn't look away. Vincent still refused to meet his eyes.

"What kind of sick shit is this?"

The memories of Vincent's mouth around his cock, of thrusting into his mouth, bringing him to come hard, flooded his mind. He'd loved it. It had felt awesome. He hadn't understood why Vincent hadn't wanted more when the younger man had been so willing. He did now. He understood the "I love you." He understood all of it. It made him want to throw up.

"My gods... seriously..."

Finally, Vincent, his supposed father in a past life, looked at him. Jacin felt himself burn. Hate. Lust. Betrayal. All of it made him want to punch the other man in the face.

"You knew?"

Vincent's ragged voice said, "Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"I didn't know who you were. She... Lucrecia wanted me to find you. But I didn't know who you were. Not until..."

"You regret it then? Fucking me?"

Vincent stared at him. His mouth opened, but no words came out. It reclosed.

If he'd burned before, he was now fire itself. The other man knew, and he still wanted him. His stomach turned over, as much as from their ordeal as his body's instability. "I really don't feel well."

The world swirled and the ex-Turk was at his side, easing him down onto the couch. A calloused hand softly brushed the hair off of his face.

Jacin blinked, looking up to the other man's face. "Did you fuck Sephiroth?"

"No."

"But you wanted to." His mind in delirium, he couldn't help hissing, "You don't want me. You just want him."

"Yes... That's why I tried to stay away from you. But she wouldn't let me. She wanted me to help you."

"I'm not him."

"No, you're not."

"But only because he died."

"...Yes."

"What if I... What if he hadn't died? Would you have been with him?"

"Jacin, I killed him. No."

The younger man looked at him, studying every curve and line of his face. He knew his face so well. "You... Even before we met, in my dreams, I kissed you. You made love to me. I mean, he did... I don't know what I mean." Jacin closed his eyes and tried to relax, but it was near impossible with the other man so close. "I think he loved you, wanted you. Whatever happened back then, I believe he did." He couldn't help his laugh. "And it's pretty fucking sick that you want to fuck me so you can screw him. What's worse is that I'd let you do it. I'd want you to and I don't know why. I just..."

"Jacin... please just rest."

Jacin let out another short laugh. "No wonder you two never fucked."

When sleep claimed him soon after, all he could feel was Vincent's presence at his side.

  

  

**Chapter 7: I Want to Hire Your Gun**

  

Warning: Mentions of past child abuse and rape.

  

Putting away the newly purchased vegetables and fresh meat, Vincent stole glances to the man sitting on the couch. Vincent had been surprised Jacin had still been here when he'd gotten back from his shopping trip. The younger man sat curled up, looking much better, although his naturally pale skin would never gain much color. On his lap sat a purring orange mass of fur. His fingers ran absentmindedly over the cat. Ginger eyes stared out the window. Dark blonde hair, running almost half way down his chest, glowed in the afternoon sun.

The younger man had hardly spoken since he'd woken up, would hardly even look at him. The gunman had respected the silence. He really didn't want to talk anyway. He'd said enough the night before to last a lifetime. So had Jacin.

The younger man's admissions still had his mind working. The idea that Lucrecia still came to him set off every nerve he had, but Jacin didn't seem too bothered by her presence. Vincent knew she'd never purposely try to hurt him, not after so much effort to save her son from whatever horrors he'd apparently been born into. Again.

Perhaps Sephiroth's soul was cursed to have a terrible existence. Perhaps the lifestream was laughing right now. At all three of them.

He himself had had too little sleep to keep him rational, as if he ever really was around this man. Since Jacin had passed out on the couch, he could do no more than doze on the chair next to him, watching the other man into the morning, regretting what he'd admitted, puzzling over everything Jacin had said.

Why was he still here?

Lithe finger grabbed a couple of mostly ripe apples and he walked back over to the plush chair. Jacin turned his head and looked at him when he sat down, watching him, cautious. Vincent wondered how much he remembered from the night before. The blonde man hadn't been in the best state and had probably said much more than he would have normally. The ex-Turk tried to resist the urge to squirm under the gaze. Feeling the coolness in his hand, he offered the apple to the other man. Jacin took it, looked back to the window, and then took a bite, probably not really tasting it judging from his bland expression.

Vincent's long body curved into the chair. He took a bite of his own fruit and tried not to stare too much. Whatever hormonal urges he'd had for so long had basically abandoned him, temporarily obviously, but his stomach had been in knots for countless hours. He just felt confusion and fear and acceptance that he no long had any secrets, well, for the most part. The remaining ones he had no intention of telling.

Out of the blue, Jacin stated, "I still want to hire you."

Vincent blinked at the words. "Hire me?"

"To kill my father. I have money. Lots of it."

The ex-Turk shook his head, unease creeping into his voice. "I don't want your money."

Jacin looked at him, glaring. "I'm not talking about money from whoring. At least..." He looked away temporarily, but then, when he looked back, he looked much older than his years. "My father is extremely wealthy. When he's dead, I'll have everything he owns. There are those under him that will follow me. When they do, the rest will. But they won't until he's dead." When Vincent only shook his head again, silently saying, no, I don't want your money, he murmured, "Well, what else could I give you that you want?"

With the way the other man was looking at him, heat coursed through the gunman, despite his will to stop it. "I don't want anything from you."

"Do you always lie so much?"

"Jacin..." Avoiding the question, he stated, "I said I'll help you. I didn't ask for anything."

The younger man smiled then. It showed little warmth. "Are you sure? I don't want to get into the middle of this and then you back out. My father is not a nice man."

"Yes, I'm sure."

"And what if..." Jacin stood, the cat jumping off of his lap and padding away. He walked up to the gunman. The heat in Vincent's body renewed and he tried to sink further into the seat. "And what if I did this?" The younger man straddled him and Vincent put his hands on Jacin's chest to stop him from coming any closer. His hips ground their groins together, hardening Vincent's length. "Do you think I don't know what it's like to be fucked by my own father? In the end, it's all just fucking."

His partial hard-on shrank at the words. Gods, what had happened to Jacin? What had this life done to him?

_'Lucrecia, you should have pushed me harder.'_

He was then certain she would have, if she'd had the strength to fight his will.

At once, he pushed at Jacin's chest, standing up, forcing the other man off of him. The blonde man stumbled back a bit, but managed to keep his eyes on the other man.

"I will help you. I'll make this right."

Jacin huffed a tiny laugh and smiled. "I don't know about making it right, but the world will be a better place for it."

Over several minutes, Vincent pulled as many technical details from Jacin as he could. When he found out that his father resided in the ruined city of Midgar, ruins that were being slowly rebuilt, he said, "Just... Just let me make a call." Vincent walked to the phone, feeling ginger eyes on him. When he had Barret on the phone, he asked if they were home, which they were, and told them his plans and that he'd be coming there shortly. Vincent packed a few belongings, grabbed a pre-prepared bag and shoes for Jacin out of his closet, strapped on his rifle, and then the two of them were heading out the door.

"Do you have anything you want to get before we leave?"

"No, I don't have anything here, not anymore."

Vincent studied him for a moment, waiting to see if he'd reveal any more. When he didn't, the gunman nodded.

They walked directly to Cloud and Barret's home. Not only did the couple have a truck, Barret also knew how to fly the plane that was kept at Cid's widow's place. With one of those at hand, and willing friends, traveling on foot would have been a waste of time.

When they arrived, Jacin continued to examine the expanse of the neighborhood with an obvious curiosity, as Vincent knocked on the door. He'd probably never been to that area of town. Cloud answered it quickly, obviously expecting them.

When he opened the door, Jacin looked at Cloud and Vincent swore the young man stopped breathing. The belief was confirmed when his face grew pink.

Cloud looked up to them, and frowned when he saw Jacin's face. "Hello..."

"This is Jacin."

Cloud extended a hand but Jacin made no move to accept it. He seemed stuck in his position. Then it occurred to Vincent that perhaps Jacin knew Cloud. But how he did, he didn't know. Cloud had a man and was never one to mess around with his dick. Other than that, considering the size of the city, there was little chance that they'd ever met.

Unless...

The swordsman looked to Vincent and then back to Jacin. Something seemed to click in Cloud's mind, flashing in his sky blue eyes. "This is who you're helping?"

"Yeah..."

Eyeing the other blonde-haired man, Cloud slowly turned away and then walked down the hallway, leaving the door open behind him. Vincent followed, but noticed that Jacin wasn't following suit. A few steps beyond the doorframe, he turned around and studied the younger man's vacant, staring face.

"Jacin?"

"His name is Cloud, isn't it? I know him... I-I..." Jacin frowned and then looked to the ex-Turk. "You... lied. You didn't kill me. He did. But he..." He shook his head. The shaking motion only grew, then stopped when clomping feet came down the hallway.

"Hey, don't be standin' in the doorway. Come in!" When Jacin only stared at him as well, Barret's steps faltered. "Or you still got somethin' to do?"

When Barret only showed confusion as to Jacin's stare, Vincent was pretty sure that Cloud had never mentioned their conversation a year ago to his lover.

"No, we're fine. Just give us a minute."

"Yeah, sure," Barret said, still frowning, but walking back the way he'd come.

Vincent looked back to Jacin just in time to see the man turn around and start walking back down the sidewalk. "Jacin!"

"I-I need a minute. Just..."

"Okay..." He let him go, watching him, waiting for him to run, or perhaps even attack something. Jacin was Sephiroth and Sephiroth had a ton of rage in him. Combine that with what Jacin had in him and who knew what could have happened, if the younger man was indeed remembering things that were supposed to never be remembered...

He realized then that they probably should have walked instead. Or chartered another plane or something. Anything else. It hadn't occurred to him that Jacin might remember Vincent's friends, the very ones who had killed Jacin in a previous life.

When the blonde man stopped at the end of the walkway, Vincent waited. He waited for several long, draining minutes before Jacin slowly turned back around and started towards him. There was something in his eyes, a hardness that hadn't been there before. He walked up to and past Vincent. The gunman's heart beat faster, acknowledging that he might have to restrain Jacin, if it came down to that. However, when he heard Barret's loud voice and Jacin's quiet one making what could have been considered conversation, Vincent followed after and watched the three men. The air was considerably tense between Cloud and Jacin, but even though Barret probably noticed, he still tried to get some lively conversation out of them.

Vincent put his gear down on the floor, sat back in the end chair, and watched. He knew what had happened between Cloud and Sephiroth long before Sephiroth had went completely insane. Cloud had told him. If Jacin remembered, then... It was best to stay out of the way, despite the heartache from the loss of something he never had in the first place.

After a few minutes, Cloud excused himself.

Barret watched after him, but cleared his throat and kept trying to be a good host: "So, yeah, ever been there? Costa del Sol is fantastic 'round now. If you wanna spend some time there, Cloud and I been talkin' about takin' a vacation anyway. I mean, I don't know what you guys are plannin' but..." The man's gruff voice trailed off when Cloud reappeared, an immensely long sword in hand, Sephiroth's Masamune.

When Jacin practically jumped out of his seat, Vincent knew without a doubt that the man recognized the sword. Barret looked between the two blonde men, as confused as ever, and Vincent felt sorry for him. But the ex-leader of Avalanche should have been grateful that, so far, he wasn't involved in this mess.

Cloud presented Jacin the sword, holding it with both hands, offering it. "It's yours. I don't want it in my home anymore."

Barret stood up, but kept his distance. "Cloud, what's goin' on here? Ya've had that damn thing for how many years now? How many times did I try and throw it away? Melt the damn thing down is what I shoulda done! It's got no business bein' here, but-"

Cloud frowned at his lover, stopping the words. Jacin took the sword without further hesitation, almost protective of it. He probably was. The man tested the weight. The fingers of one hand slid to the hilt and gripped it. He brought it next to his head and Vincent witnessed a battle stance that he never thought he'd see again. His heart thudded in his chest and Cloud backed away. In life, Sephiroth had been the only person who could bring the blade to its full bloody potential. Being the full height of Sephiroth, and then some, muscled to perfection, Vincent had no doubt the man could handle the sword and, if he remembered how to use it, if the stance was any indication, the man would be dangerous. Looking to Cloud, the gunman could tell the smaller man knew the mistake he'd made as well.

Jacin looked to them, all of them. Sizing them up, deciding what to do. When his eyes rested on Vincent, he smiled slightly. Surely he saw the fear in his crimson eyes. Death Penalty was next to him and he didn't want to use it. Jacin wouldn't survive. Sephiroth, with Jenova and a shitload of mako permeating his every cell, could have survived quite a bit, but Jacin couldn't.

"Vincent, you look like you've seen a ghost." His smile grew and he looked back to Cloud. "Thank you."

Cloud nodded, relaxing slightly. Very slightly. Jacin brought the sword down to his side and laid it on the table next to him, sitting back down.

Barret looked between them again, his face drenched in confusion, and blurted out, "Oookay, so, we still eatin' or we headin' out now? We already packed, so..."

When Cloud only walked out of the room, Barret immediately followed, obviously ready to get some answers. When Vincent heard his distant hollers bouncing off the walls, he knew it hadn't taken Cloud long to admit what was going on.

Crimson eyes met ginger eyes.

"You've never looked at me like that before. Is that how you looked at Sephiroth?" Jacin frowned then. "No, not quite like this... You would kill me, wouldn't you?"

"Only if you try to kill us."

Jacin smiled broadly at that. "You have no idea what this feels like. The power I know. But... it's not there anymore. My mother's voice...." Jacin looked away, shaking his head. "Sephiroth's mother's-"

"Lucrecia was Sephiroth's mother."

The younger man stood up and took a step towards him. "She came to you as well? In your dreams? Why didn't she try to stop me, stop Sephiroth. Why didn't she ever try?"

"I think she was... in denial... But she knew what you'd do. What Sephiroth would do. She loved him, but she loved others as well. She made as many mistakes as I did. Love, trust, hope, they make you do stupid things."

"You know so much about love?" Jacin smirked. "Perhaps you're just following your dick."

Vincent bristled at the words. "I'd think you'd be the last to think I could leave such things at the door. Yes, that's part of it. But it's not all of it."

"You know, all these things you think you're feeling: They're all just in your head, some figment of your imagination." Pointing a finger up in the air, he declared with a hiss, "People only have one true drive: to reproduce. Everything else is just an extension. Sephiroth had been like that, but then... but then he was so much more... I was power. I was..." A smile took over, a small but real one. "Nearly immortal. And this is really fucking confusing. I don't know what I am anymore." The man plopped back down into his seat and ran his fingers over Masamune like he was touching a lover.

In watching him, the gunman realized then, ironically, that since his admission the night before, his own control over himself had been so much greater than it'd been in years, decades. Perhaps secrecy, avoiding the truth, had been his lust's main power.

When Jacin looked at him finally, he muttered, "No, I don't think you've ever looked at me like that before. Are you done with me now? Is your fantasy over?"

Vincent looked away, unable to help himself. The other man radiated hurt and confusion, and he couldn't deal with it at that moment.

"Yeah, I think it's over," Jacin stated.

Color coming to his face, Vincent stalked away, storming out of the house, and then he stopped as suddenly as he'd started, soaking in the last bits of rays the sun had to offer for that day.

A minute later, nearly silent footsteps came up behind him. "Vincent..." Jacin touched his bare arm. "I'm sorry. I'm just... so fucking pissed off at the world. And none of this is really helping." The fingers wrapped around the flesh and gripped lightly. "I don't believe you ever would have hurt me, hurt Sephiroth, if you hadn't thought it was the right thing to do. And what you felt... Maybe... Maybe you were just trying to replace her. I mean... I know it wasn't exactly conventional... I don't know. Like you said, love makes you do stupid things."

"Are you the love expert now?"

The blonde man laughed lightly. "I've been around enough shit to learn something. Like my father..."

When the words stopped and the grip on his arm tightened, Vincent remembered what Jacin had said earlier that day about his father. The statement could have been taken as a figure of speech or a misdirection. However, with the bitterness that had been in his voice, Vincent knew Jacin had meant it.

"He abused my mother and me. But he always said he loved us afterwards. But... When I was 14, she couldn't take it anymore. She tried to get us away from him. He killed her because, well, that time she tried to get away with another man. And then... He only did it once, but after that, I don't think he could stand the sight of me anymore. I was nothing but a whore to him. He gave me to his men, to his friends. I was way too young. And then..." Vincent heard the man's voice crack and he knew he was crying. The grip only tightened. "I tried to kill him. I tried so hard, but I'm a shitty shot. The bullet just nicked him, from what I heard, and I ran. I was terrified. I knew what he did with people who crossed him. I'd seen him torture people. I was 17 then. I've been running ever since. He's an evil man and he deserves to die." The grip tightened further and brought pain. Vincent knew the younger man probably didn't realize he was doing it. "And I hope you're still going to help me. Whoever I am, whatever I am, I still don't think I can do it on my own."

Vincent put his hand over Jacin's. The taller man's forehead hit the back of the raven-haired man's shoulder, and he released a sob that he'd probably been holding in for years. The gunman's throat tightened as he tried to control his own tears. He tried to be strong. He tried to be a friend.

After several minutes, the sobs slowly came under control. Vincent turned around, Jacin letting him go. The younger man was looking down at their feet. His trembling hands wiped his face. However plain and ordinary this man was, he was still beautiful. Vincent smiled at him, although the other man couldn't see it. But then, he did see it, looking up when the raven-haired man brushed some blonde locks behind an ear.

Jacin's smile almost matched his. "What? You like seeing grown men cry?"

Vincent's smile grew. "Maybe." Then his smile lessened, as he promised to Jacin, "I'm not going to leave. I'm not. So get it out of your head."

Jacin's rubbed his own arm, looking away, as his smile slowly drained, and then he looked Vincent in the eye again. "What I said last night... I kind of lied."

The gunman frowned. "About what?"

"I don't think that he loved you. I don't think he even really knew you."

"You're right, he didn't know me, not really. He didn't know who I was. I should have told him, but when I could have, I doubt he would have listened. But I should have tried and I regret that I didn't."

Jacin shook his head. "He wouldn't have listened. You would have had to tie him down first. And even then he would have fought you. He just..." Jacin shook his head, eyes closed. "I keep remembering more and more. These memories, they're horrible. The apathy he felt. He was so single-minded. He would have killed all of you and he would have felt he was in the right. But... It wasn't always like that. With Cloud and... Zack and the others. He loved them, but he was so lost that he kept them away. I-I don't want to do that. I don't want to be like that."

"You aren't and you won't be. I won't let you."

"You sure you could stop me?" Jacin half-laughed at Vincent's serious face. "Gods, you're giving me this warm and fuzzy feeling. I barely know what to do with myself." The man looked back down at their feet, sudden color slightly tarnishing his cheeks. "You know, when I dreamt about you, I think that it was just me, when you made love to me... I think that was just me." He snorted then. "Not that I'm asking you to marry me or anything..."

A heat already flowing through him at the admission, despite himself, Vincent grinned, but the grin was lost when Jacin, looked back up into his eyes, bent his head, and drew close. His breaths quickened. When their lips met, the blonde man gripped his hand and claw, ensuring at least that he couldn't get away too quickly.

"Don't run from me," Jacin whispered against his lips.

Vincent let him in. The kiss was slow but left him panting nonetheless. It was all he could do to not pull the taller man against him. But they were outside in full view of anyone who might be passing by.

When the younger man finally pulled away and studied his face, he mumbled, "When this is over..."

The future... His stomach turned at the thoughts suddenly raging through his mind. So much of his life had been spent merely going from day to day. To think about it, to plan, the notion scared him. He'd tried that before and it had failed miserably. "I don't know."

"Yeah..." Despite the dismissive word, Jacin bent down to kiss him again and, from the near urgency of it, was probably afraid he'd never get another chance.

Vincent kissed back and meant it.

Suddenly, a clearing of a throat brought their attention back to reality. Barret, trying not to look at them, but not having much of a choice, stood at the door frame. "So, yeah, let's get goin'."

Jacin pulled away from him and he felt regrettably chilled. They walked back inside and grabbed their belongings. Barret stared at Jacin when he grabbed Masamune, an obvious new awareness on his face. Barret looked back to him and Vincent hoped that Cloud hadn't revealed all of it, although he doubted he would have.

With a shake of his head, Barret led them to the garage. Cloud, sitting in the driver's seat, nodded to them. Barret took a seat next to his lover. Jacin and Vincent sat in the back, putting their gear to the side so the wind wouldn't blow it around too much.

Vincent felt Jacin's gaze on him and met his eyes. He could see the fire there and almost regretted leaving his apartment so abruptly. Of course, had they stayed there, they might not have gotten to this point.

The truck ride outside of the city was spent in silence.

_'Lucrecia, do you still regret it?'_

A warm hand gripped his with a tightness that bordered on pain.

"I don't." The quiet words failed to carry in the wind.

  

  

**Chapter 8: The Many Uses of Plastic Ties**

  

  
The miles traveled closed the distance to Midgar but also managed to spread the distance between Jacin and Vincent. With the growing distance, the gunman had to acknowledge that they weren't truly friends. They weren't even lovers. They were two people bound together in ways that weren't natural. He had to acknowledge it because as time passed, Jacin looked at him less and less, and at times even refused to talk to him. The man was withdrawing from everyone.

It set him on edge knowing that the younger man's hand hadn't left Masamune for nearly an hour. Cloud and Barret would occasionally turn their heads to stare as well. By that point, Jacin paid the stares no heed.

They'd passed over Costa del Sol without an argument, no one apparently in any type of mood to vacation. In fact, there was little conversation at all. The two men never even asked why they were going to Midgar.

The torn apart city would soon appear on the horizon. Vincent didn't want to see it at that point. He didn't know what thoughts were going through Jacin's head, but he was certain their destination would only make the darkness marring his face worse.

Jacin suddenly stiffened in his seat, looking out the window. Sitting across from him, Vincent followed the lead and looked out as well. Midgar was as much green as it was metal colored. Only a couple adjacent sectors appeared to be holding back the planet from reclaiming its land. The burnt out structure in the middle that had been ShinRa Headquarters had once been his home, as well as Sephiroth's. Had Jacin felt Deja-vu growing up in Midgar, or was the place so torn apart, so unrecognizable, that it hadn't clicked?

His vision blurred again and he stopped trying to look at the ravished city. He hadn't slept properly since Jacin had shown up at his doorstep almost 48 hours before. He should have forced himself to sleep, to be able to think properly, at the very least. But he couldn't even fathom the act. Not with everyone on the plane on edge. He didn't want to go to sleep only to have something go horribly wrong. Whatever the strengths of Cloud and Barret, Jacin was his responsibility and he couldn't take the risk of letting his guard down, for everyone's sakes. Luckily the other man had behaved for the entire trip.

Cloud and Barret's voices barely reached them from the cabin, but they were probably trying to find a good place to land. In the darkness, the plane hovered for a few seconds, then landed as softly as a few tons of metal could.

For the first time in almost two hours, Jacin met his eyes. A ton of emotion, fear, excitement, rage, playing on his face, all made the younger man's breath quick. His grip tightened on his sword and he stood up. He was at the door before it had even opened up an inch. The man was definitely eager... Vincent had expected more fear and restraint, but suddenly realized, as the other man stalked down the stairs, that he was going to have to keep up with the freshly crowned swordsman.

Cloud exited the cockpit and watched Jacin's fading figure, frowning. "You sure about this, Vincent?"

The gunman answered honestly, "I don't know."

"What are we doing here anyway? I think it's about time to let us in on it."

Vincent shook his head, gathering his belongings. "I never intended either of you to come any further than this. I think it's better you don't know."

"We can still go back. I don't know what you two are doing here, but it's obviously not something good for your health."

"When has anything I've done been good for my health," Vincent asked with a smirk.

"I thought... I thought we had something good going back home." Cloud walked up to him and gripped his arm. "Gods, Vincent, we've been through so much together... Just don't go doing something you'll regret."

A claw gripped the hand in turn. "I'll call you when I'm home. Thank you."

"I don't need your thanks. Just come home when you're done." The blonde-haired man hugged him suddenly and then let go just as quickly.

Vincent caught Barret's gaze and nodded to him. The man gave him a half-sarcastic salute, but he could tell underneath the tough exterior that the whole situation was truly bugging the large man. He adjusted his gear and left the aircraft.

Some distance away, in the darkness, he saw Jacin watching him carefully. The man had probably seen, not heard, the conversation and the embrace. His steps faltered when he was about ten feet away as the swordsman continued to eye him.

"Did Cloud tell you about..."

When the other man seemed unable to continue, he said quietly, "Yeah."

"I knew him, well, Sephiroth knew him for such a short period of time, but..."

"I know."

"Does that bother you?"

"No. I just wanted to..."

"Have a chance?"

Vincent crossed his arms over his chest, uncomfortable, wishing for silence. When the man continued to wait expectantly, he breathed out, "I just wanted things to be good."

A small but true smile crept onto Jacin's lips. "Don't we all?" The grip on Masamune tightened. "Soon, things will be better at least."

The smile more than the words chilled Vincent and gave him pause. Suddenly, eating at him was the belief that this wasn't going to end well in one way or another. Not to mention, he feared for Jacin's sanity, if things didn't go as the swordsman expected. With the sure swipe of the long sword before Jacin turned back around and marched off, the gunman then had to acknowledge that he really didn't know what Jacin was expecting at this point.

He should have stopped Jacin. Everything in him was screaming at him to stop this. It wouldn't end well. How could it possibly end well? They were going to kill someone, perhaps more.

"Why the hell did I agree to this," the ex-Turk hissed under his breath.

What a time to start regretting, when they were on the other side of the planet. Jacin had been right. Lucrecia had been too right. He was undependable, too willing to turn away, to let the fear of choices steer him.

Jacin's sure footfalls slowed down, then stopped. He turned around, staring at Vincent in the darkness barely lit up by the nearby lights. The overcast sky allowed no starlight. It would probably rain soon.

"Seriously, Vincent?" The younger man took a few steps back towards him, shaking his head. "I've come too far to turn back now. If you don't come with me, I'll do it myself."

"I should stop you. This is a mistake."

The swordsman barked a bit of laughter. He raised his arms, the sword in one making it abnormally long in the darkness. "Then stop me." When Vincent failed to move, the headshaking started again and his arms lowered. "Good gods, how did you ever manage to do anything in your life? How did you ever become a Turk? How did you ever even get her to sleep with you? You must have had to rely on your looks alone. I hate to say it, Vincent, but you're pathetic." Vincent ground his jaw, unable to speak. "You're not even going to deny it?"

How could he deny what was so true? How could he ever be more than his regret when life constantly shoved the past in his face? If the world would just leave him the hell alone, he could move on. He could be more. He jerked his gaze to the horizon, unable to meet the other man's eyes any longer.

"Vincent... You know, half your problem is that you just let things happen. If you don't take a stand, you'll never control your own life. You can't half-ass everything. I mean, even your 'stands' with me are half-assed. And why am I even counseling you on this?" He ran a hand through his hair, although his hand gripped more than it flowed. "Do you even have any clue... You want to know why people don't give up on you?"

That wasn't true. Lucrecia had given up on him... But only after he'd crossed every single line she'd made. After he'd pushed and pushed her to her breaking point.

Outside of the temporary flings he could handle, before things got too close, he knew he pushed everyone away and he didn't know why.

When Vincent only looked to the horizon, Jacin continued with, "People don't give up on you because, through everything, no matter how much of an asshole you are, you mean well. So many people don't. I know you regret everything. You regret so much because you do care." The man half-laughed then, when Vincent still didn't say anything. "Vincent, you really need to start talking more. You'll feel better."

The raven-haired man smiled slightly. "Maybe."

"And if you keep doing this, you're going to get us killed. Let's regret afterwards."

"The last thing I want is more regrets."

"Well, then let's not regret it."

Vincent could sense the determination in the other man, and became certain he could do little to talk him out of it, outside of mentions of sure death. But even though the threat of death had forced the teenager to run before, that might have not even deterred Jacin at that point. Perhaps that newfound determination came from a place it shouldn't have.

"You might be Sephiroth, but you can die, Jacin. I would regret that more than anything."

The younger man stared for a moment, but then looked away. Vincent could see the other man's breathing had picked up. Perhaps he'd finally touched a nerve that could stop this.

"Don't let me die then." He walked closer, until they could almost reach out and touch one another. Jacin's face was tense, as if he was about to cry. "You should have told him you didn't want him to die."

"I should have, but... but that doesn't matter anymore. I'm telling you now."

Jacin stepped forward again and gripped the gunman's chin in strong fingers. Heat instantly pumped through Vincent's body as the other man stared at him, looking like he was about to devour him.

The blonde-haired man leaned forward a bit, but paused. "Will you ever make the first move? Humor me, just a little?"

Suddenly, the plane in the background fired up, making Vincent's body jerk. He'd forgotten the other two and the plane were still behind them. He didn't turn to watch them go, afraid of what he'd see in their faces.

"Just kiss me, Vincent. You'll feel better," Jacin murmured.

"I seriously doubt that." Nonetheless, against his better judgment, he dropped his gear. It clinked on the metal platform. Carefully, he brought his hand to touch Jacin's cheek. The man leaned his head into the touch and closed ginger eyes.

 _'Lucrecia, you must hate me,'_ he thought, as the hand weaved into long locks of dark blonde hair.  _'You should have just let us be.'_

Despite the thoughts, he knew he could never blame her for his choices. She'd always just hoped he'd occasionally manage to make the right ones. He had to make the right one now.

"Jacin..." The younger man's eyes opened, obviously reluctant. "I want you to stay here. I'll take care of this."

"What?" Jacin blinked the lust out of his eyes. "No. You don't know where he is or even what he looks like."

"I know enough. I want you safe."

"Are you serious? No!" He pulled away, trying to get out of Vincent's grip, but he didn't let him go. "No. I need to do this!"

"No, you don't." If Jacin wanted him to put his foot down, something he should have done ages ago, this was the time to do it.

"If you leave me here, I'll follow." The conviction in the man's face faltered as he tried to stare down the ex-Turk. Perhaps he realized Vincent had ways of making sure he stayed put.

The gunman tightened his grip, not wanting to let go, needing the other man to understand. "This will be done by the time the sun rises and you'll stay here."

The younger man's skin was flushed, his breaths heavy. He stared at him with a mix of emotions, none of them winning the battle for dominance. He was so fucking beautiful.

Finally, breaking the battle of wills, Jacin breathed out, "Fine."

The word thudded Vincent's heart. He didn't believe it for a second, but it felt good to hear. He released his grip, rummaged through his bag for a brief moment, and stood back up. He slipped one plastic tie between his teeth. The other he held in his hand. Jacin frowned at him. In the second it took him to open his mouth, probably realizing what was about to happen, Vincent disarmed him, Masamune clattering to the ground a short distance away, and had him on the ground, his arms behind his back fastened together with a plastic tie. The next movement, he had the other man standing up and moving to a nearby pile of scrap metal. The younger man fought him, but the raven-haired man was just as determined and had a mix of chemicals and monsters inside of him that made the other man no match. He sat the man down and used the tie between his teeth to fasten the man's secured arms to a section of metal fencing. Jacin cursed at him through the entire ordeal, but the gunman refused to pay attention.

When he stood back up and walked away, Jacin hissed, "Please don't do this! Please, I have to come with you!"

Vincent grabbed his gear, took one look at the man desperately fighting his bindings several yards away, jumped off of the landing, and wondered how many would die that night.

He heard the distant "Fuck you!" and smiled.

  

  

**Chapter 9: Touches Hidden in Alleyways**

  

Notes:

Warning: Graphic violence and death/murder, and graphic descriptions of past rape/non-con and sadistic behavior.

  

Drops of water hit his hair, shoulders, bounds hands, curled up legs. His struggles renewed. "That fucking bastard. Gods, I swear I'm going to fucking kill him when I find him," he hissed under his breath between the continuous flow of threats, hate, and just being generally pissed the hell off.

It was the first time he'd had a reason to hate another. Truly hate. Not because he really hated Vincent but because he loved him so much, for crazy reasons, that the betrayal could only bring rage.

Yeah, he'd pushed the other man. He should have kept his mouth shut. He should have just followed Vincent's quiet lead. He should have run the moment the plane landed.

The torn skin on his wrists tried to end his struggles with pain, but he wouldn't stop. He wedged his elbow around the pole and jerked again and again with everything he had.

Vincent had no right. He wasn't a child. It wasn't supposed to go like this. He needed to be there. He needed to see the death in his father's eyes. He needed to see him dead. He wanted to see it. He wanted this to end. He wanted an end. If Vincent did it on his own, it wouldn't count. His father wouldn't know what it was liked to be fucked so hard that all he could do was scream. The gunman didn't understand. Jacin  didn't just want his father dead. He wanted to kill him.

This was so fucking wrong.

His body drenched and chilled from the downpour, he jerked again. His shoulder shot out shards of pain, He gritted his teeth, holding back the groan. He held back because he'd heard a clink, the sound of rusty rivets breaking under the strain. The sound was musical and brought instant relief. A few more yanks and the whole pole broke off. He rolled to his side to stand, shrugging the metal along until is slipped from between his arms and clattered to the ground. Then he was back down on his back, working his bound hands under his backside. The moment they were in front of him, he was up and heading towards Masamune. The metal glittered under the rain, as if greeting him, which gave him a small warmth. He fell to his knees and used the edge to cut the bindings off of his wrists.

His flesh was torn up, bleeding in numerous places, his shoulder radiated pain, but he didn't have time to worry about it. But then, a glow catching his eye, he looked to the gleaming marbles embedded into the hilt of his sword. He knew what they did. They were the same ones he'd had, well, Sephiroth had owned before he'd fallen.

Careful fingers ran over them. They almost purred at the touch. He remembered the pain and destruction they had caused. And the life they had brought.

Fingers caressed a green one. Ginger eyes closed. Immediately he felt the warmth enter him. His shoulder, wrists, the numerous scrapes and pains grew hot, but not to the point that it added to his pain. He released his mental hold and the energy left him, leaving little pain behind.

"Gods..."

The reminiscing about power didn't last long as the rain stole the new warmth. A strong hand pushed soaked blonde locks out of his eyes. He stood, lifting Masamune, and started off in the direction Vincent had gone. When he looked over the edge, down three stories, he took a nearby ladder instead. He remembered his inhuman speed, his leaps into the air. Hell, he remembered flying. But he was pretty sure he couldn't even jump down a story in this body. It simply didn't have the strength, nor the capability. They were strengths and capabilities he'd never fully appreciated until now, when he couldn't do it.

Vincent was less than 20 minutes ahead of him. Considering the other man could leap off of three stories towers and just keep walking, he'd have considerable time to make up. His main advantage was that he knew where he was headed: Jagannath Corneo's Manor.

  

  

The streets were nearly barren and, considering the early hour, that wasn't surprising. Those who noticed Vincent did double takes and stepped up their pace to their intended destinations. They saw a stranger, a wrathful one at that. He saw them the same, replacing wrath with fear. Anyone he could have known, they were probably long dead or, at least, unrecognizable with age. Ignoring their retreats, he looked for someone who obviously wasn't an innocent bystander, who wouldn't run from him the second he approached.

His tenseness at being in unfamiliar territory was disturbingly un-Turk like. He hadn't been in such a situation for far too long with Rocket Town being his home for years. The comforts of having a home, friends, and free time had made him soft.

Despite the lack of help, Vincent had a general idea where to head. Jacin had said the devastation to Wall Market had forced his family to relocate into the territory that was being rebuilt. The relocation had been easier with the loss of their head of the family, Don Corneo, Jagannath's father. From what Jacin had understood, Jagannath had been all too happy to build a new manor, ridding the family name of a perverted old man he cared nothing for. Nonetheless, the man hadn't strayed far from his family's traditions of whoring, control, and the wealth that came along with them.

The rain came down suddenly. Blinking at the water in his eyes, he looked back in the direction he'd left Jacin, wishing he'd chosen an area with more protection. If the man died of pneumonia, the whole tying-up routine would have ended up being pointless.

 _'Thank goodness for materia,'_  he thought humorlessly.

The knowledge, that Jacin was suffering more than he'd intended, renewed his motivation to get this done as quickly as possible.

He stalked forward, crimson eyes trying to tear apart the landscape. A few minutes later he noticed a group of men, standing near a door, with noticeable bulges under their clothes. Firearms. It was as good of a place as any to start.

Tossing his gear against a nearby wall, he shrugged at the assuring weight of Death Penalty at his back and took off at a full run. The first man that noticed the incoming attack got the first punch that sent him slamming against the stone wall. The three others were too shocked, staring down at their fallen comrade, and they failed to react right away. It made grabbing the next two's hair and attached skulls easy. The men's heads slammed together with a dull thud.

The final man backed up, horrified, groping for his gun. It was probably the first time in a long time anyone had dared challenge their group. The ex-Turk gripped the man's neck in his claw and disarmed him, tossing the gun down the sidewalk. Blood dripped from the points where the tips connected, as he forced the man down onto his knees so he couldn't thrash around too much, coming down on a knee in front of  him.

When man only gurgled, trying to tear at the claw suffocating him, Vincent forced himself to relax, asking, "I'd like directions to Jagannath Corneo, if you could." Threats of impending death was no reason to be rude, well, more rude than he already was being.

The man coughed and sputtered, "Jag?" He pointed a shaking arm to the distance. "Head down there... Make a right at the church... Can't miss it."

The church? Wasn't that where Cloud said he'd met Aerith?

"Thank you."

He squeezed until the man went limp and then let him drop. He noticed the bulge in a pants pocket, of one of the other men, and took out the phone, quickly put it on vibrate, and pocketed it. None of the other men moved, other than weak breaths, so he stalked back over to his gear, picked it up, and ran down the barren street, his feet splashing water from the growing puddles.

  

  

Jacin ran in drenched sneakers. His sweat pants and t-shirt might as well have been made of water with the protection they offered. However, with his pace, the coldness failed to reach him. He ran down the street and noticed a pile of downed men near the bar. He recognized one of them when he closed the distance. He recognized him all too well.

The man still breathed.

Instant rage consumed him. With sureness, he raised his blade and thrust it down and then slanting it so that it went under the man's ribcage. Then he yanked up and enjoyed the satisfying pop of severed bone and tissue. Blood splattered everywhere, including on his face. A foul stench followed the blood, assuring him he'd severed the man's guts.

In one moment to the next, he stumbled back, gagging, before he finally threw up on the ground. His body took to trembling so hard that he almost couldn't stay upright. Masamune hit the ground as he tried to get blood off of his face, out of his mouth. He swore he could still taste it, even over the vomit. He scooped and shoved dirty water into his mouth from the puddle next to him, spitting, repeatedly, trying to get the taste out.

He'd never killed someone before. He'd done it without thinking, without hesitation. He'd only wanted his father dead.

Then Jacin looked to the man's face again, trying to figure out what the hell he had done. He remembered his own muffled cries as the grisly man had dry fucked his abused hole, the man's hand pushing down his throat. He'd forced him to swallow other things as well. He'd had a warped desire to make him gag and throw up. The memories made him wretch again, his body remembering the pain and misery of not being able to make it stop. Jacin knew he wasn't the only one he'd done it to. The men and women of the brothel were terrified of him. In fact, he'd heard of worse from them, which had left him wondering if he was being protected. In the end, his father had kept the sadistic fuck on because he'd gladly done things others wouldn't.

Staring at the dead man, as he slowly straightened, he muttered, "Well, they don't have to be scared anymore." From that man anyway. He wiped drenched locks of dark blonde hair out of his eyes to get a better look. Suddenly, he wanted to remember this.

One of the other men shifted, waking up. He noticed the claw marks around his throat when the man's trembling hand went to it. None of them deserved to live. He would do what Vincent couldn't.

He walked back to his sword, picked it up, and watched the man sit up, pawing over his dead friend. The man darted a gaze around, searching frantically, quickly turning fearful eyes to him. Apparent recognition hit with a frown.

Throatily, he said, "Jacin?"

Jacin called to the materia in his sword, and watched the ice push over the men's bodies, into them, which made the awake man scream, encasing them until he could barely see them. He frowned at the sight and turned away, his brain trying to comprehend what was going on in his fucked up mind.

He walked, and then he ran. Tears ran with the rain down his face.

When the place he'd once known as home came into view, his steps faltered. Suddenly he didn't know if he could even walk in there, let alone head up to the third floor. What the hell had he been thinking? Why was he even here? Well, he knew why, but suddenly the reasons seemed unimportant and indefensible.

A flash of blackness darted on his right, grabbed his arm, and hauled him to a nearby alleyway. A body covered him, concealing him. For a moment he fought the closeness, but stopped when Vincent hissed. He looked down and realized his sword was implanted into Vincent's upper thigh.

"Fucking hell," the raven-haired man growled under his breath.

"Gods, I'm so sorry!" Jacin wailed, hysteric, his voice bordering on loud.

Vincent slammed a hand over his mouth. "Shut. Up."

Freaked out, Jacin yanked the sword away. Yeah, minutes before, Jacin had wanted to kill the other man, but he hadn't actually meant it. Then again, considering what he'd done to those men, he could no longer be sure what he'd do.

The claw gripped his sword and he let Vincent take it from him. All he could do was cry behind the gunman's fingers. The other man stared at him, unrelenting, untold emotions raging in his crimson eyes.

Finally, the gunman hushed him, whispered at him to calm down, to relax. It was going to be all right, he said. Don't cry. Don't worry.

Then Vincent's forehead fell against his own and crimson eyes shut, his breathing ragged.

Jacin tried to comprehend the move and realized the man was in pain. Although the notion only made his heart beat faster, he forced himself to stop acting like a crazy person. When Vincent's eyes still didn't open, he closed his own eyes and called to the materia only a small distance from him. With the thought, the gunman's breaths slowed. His body relaxed slightly against his. His head pulled away. Jacin reopened his eyes and saw Vincent looking at him with a frown.

His tears renewed. The rain washed them away. He tied to keep his voice under control, but failed, as he mumbled behind the loosened hand, "I'm so sorry. Please..." The man tried to hush him again, but he continue with, "I killed them, those men you left."

Vincent covered his mouth with his palm, instead of the fingers, probably since the fingers weren't doing the job. "Right now, I seriously don't care. Just. Stop. Talking." He shoved his hand hard, making the back of his head press into the bricks, obviously trying to make a point. "Okay?"

Jacin nodded with enthusiasm, as much as he could with the hand gripping his face. Vincent looked like he wanted to beat the shit out of him. He wouldn't have blamed him. Surely he deserved it. He'd fucked up. He could only blame so much on the mishmash of thoughts, urges, and emotions he felt could be accounted to Sephiroth.

Sephiroth wouldn't have run around like a manic, defenseless and unaware, begging to be taken out. He wouldn't have regretted killing when he had to. Later on, he wouldn't have regretted killing when he didn't have to. He would have had control. He would have known what to do. He would have had some fucking common sense, at least outside of notions of worldly destruction and becoming a god.

Finally, the frown loosening, Vincent looked away from him. His breaths grew quiet. He grew calm. He seemed to be listening. After nearly a minute, he looked back and released his mouth.

It was then that he realized how tightly pressed together their bodies were. It certainly wasn't an appropriate time to get aroused, but he couldn't really help it. He'd never really been this close to the other man before, and certainly not for this length of time.

If someone had accused him of being a nutcase, at that point he couldn't have denied it. Had he even really been sane? Had ever even had a chance at it?

A whisper he could barely hear over the rain, Vincent growled, "Jacin, you obviously don't want to listen to me. And that's fine. But if this is going to continue, you're going to have to start listening to me whether you like it or not. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Jacin said breathlessly, overwhelmed with the intensity of emotion coming from the other man.

Vincent gripped his chin and cheek, holding him, shaking his own head. "Don't make me lose you."

The sight of tears in the other man's eyes brought Jacin to his breaking point. Crimson eyes blinked and the fading rain washed the salty water away as it had done with his own. Then the man's mouth was on him, kissing him, bruising his lips, scraping against his teeth with his own, trying to gain much more contact than was physically possible.

 _'Gods...'_  Jacin gripped his neck with both hands, bringing more force, making the kiss border on painful. Vincent did the same, which pulled his head slightly away from the wall. Jacin was breathing so hard through his nose he started to hyperventilate, growing dizzy.

Once again that night, Masamune clanked onto the ground. The gunman gripped his hair and pulled, tilting his head, running bites and kissed down his exposed throat. He kept his eyes closed at the small drops of water hitting his face. He gasped when Vincent ground his hard length next to his own. The other man surely noticed it through the thin layers of cotton.

Considering they'd truly known each other for so little time, it was probably his dick, his whacked out mind talking, but he couldn't help it when he hissed, "Gods, Vincent, I love you so much."

The man, whom he hoped would one day be his lover, straightened and looked him in the eyes. Then his mouth was covering his own again, the grip at his neck wouldn't have let him move away had he wanted to. And he didn't want to.

He'd always wanted this, even before he'd met Vincent. At that point, he didn't care who Vincent wanted, if it was him or Sephiroth. Either way, Vincent would still be his.

Finally, the gunman pulled away, panting, obviously reluctant. "I don't think we can go any further with this right now." Nonetheless, he kissed him again, this time slowly, so slowly it made Jacin groan with desire. He pulled away slightly again. "Gods, I want to be in you so badly. This is killing me."

"I know the feeling," Jacin panted, stealing a kiss, and then another that didn't stop.

Vincent ground against him, gaining a rhythm which Jacin matched. The swordsman weaved his fingers through wet raven hair, pulling the other man all that much closer.

Vincent broke this kiss, panting next to his ear, putting all of his effort into their celibate fucking. "I love you so fucking much," he hissed.

That was all Jacin could handle. After two more grinds, he came hard, burying his face Vincent's neck, into wet hair, to stifle his moans. Vincent came soon after, biting into his shoulder over the t-shirt, probably drawing blood.

By the time they could pull away from one another, the rain had stopped completely, and surely it was getting dangerously close to dawn. When Vincent finally pulled away and looked into his eyes, again, he reclaimed his mouth, apparently unable to deny himself. Jacin didn't want him to stop.

Vincent moved to his ear, and whispered, "I want to fuck you again and again. I want to hear your moaning, to hear how much you want it."

The blonde-haired man rehardened at the words, as if he'd really gone soft. "I want it. I want you in me."

He was ready to start stripping in the entrance of the dirty alleyway that smelled of garbage and piss. He was so ready. But then Vincent hushed him again with his fingers at his mouth. His mouth still ached from Vincent's ravishing that the fingers brought pleasure as well. But he tried to control himself because he knew something was suddenly wrong.

The high was difficult to come down off of, but it was easier when Vincent's body was suddenly away and a body collapsed in front of him inches from his blade.

Vincent kicked the body out of his way and reclaimed his closeness. The other man was suddenly serious again, but that didn't matter as Jacin heated back up. He tried not to heat back up, but how could he not? The other man was his desire, had been so for years, and he could no longer deny that.

The woman in his dreams, Lucrecia, had always told him this man would come and save him. But after so many years, he'd stopped believing it, stopped listening to her, despite her insistence, but now he believed.

"Now's the time to start listening, okay?"

Jacin nodded, feeling childish but trusting.

"We need to do this quickly. We don't have much night left."

When Jacin merely nodded again, Vincent frowned at him.

"You still want to do this? You can stay here, you don't have to come with me."

Did he? He didn't know. Maybe he could just keep running. Maybe Vincent would keep him safe.

But what of the others, those that had no means to fight or get away? There were people around him he knew and loved. They were as trapped as he had been. In ways, he was still trapped, but not as much as them.

"I... I don't think I should stop."

The gunman nodded. "Okay, just stay behind me, unless I tell you otherwise."

With the words, the rain picked up again and Jacin nodded.

Vincent bent down and picked up his sword. He handed it to the younger man. "And watch where you're sticking this thing." Jacin opened up his mouth to apologize profusely again, but Vincent shook his head with a small smirk. "Don't worry about it. It's just mind numbing pain. It just makes me understand..."

"Understand what?"

"That I'd never tried very hard."

"Tried hard?" The words confused him and he knew the man was talking about something he knew nothing about. "What are you talking about?"

The raven-haired man smiled. "Life is precious, even if it never ends." He cupped Jacin's cheek.

Despite himself, he blushed as those crimson eyes watched him closely. He stored the words in the back of his mind since Vincent suddenly moved away, obviously expecting him to follow of his own accord.

  

  

**Chapter 10: Let the Fire Burn**

  

Notes:

Warning: More graphic violence and death/murder.

  

Jacin followed behind Vincent, his brain and body trying to make sense of what he was seeing. While Sephiroth had never been quite that subtle, the way Vincent moved made him pulse with the desire to do the same. In the end though, it was all he could do to merely keep up and hide in the shadows at the same time.

Vincent pushed him against a wall, shoving the bag at him, with the clear expectation that he suddenly stay put. He watched, his breath heavy, as the ex-Turk dashed to the gate, took out the guard in front of it, climbed up the gate, catlike in his motions, and then swung over the top of it. Then Jacin heard no more until a door, previously hidden along the grooves of the wall, opened and the gunman motioned him inside.

The two men inside the small observation room had fared no better than the man Vincent now dragged inside by one leg. The man obviously knew what he was doing. The sureness of the other man's actions, although it was obviously painful to the unconscious men, brought a sudden sense of calm in the younger man as he watched him leash the men to a nearby pipe with some more plastic ties. It was a calmness he'd never really felt before. He'd always been in fear, running, never sure what other pain life would bring in the next moment.

But now... Surely it was Sephiroth. But then again, actually, he realized, even if it was Sephiroth, it'd always been in him, it was him. He just hadn't known.

He watched Vincent, thinking on idea, until the other man looked back.   Then he took the initiative, walking over the bodies, and looked at the monitors. When he saw the door he'd often used to sneak out as a child, he pointed to it.

"We can go in here. It's a servant door, but it leads straight up to the top."

One of the men started to moan, and Vincent gave him a solid kick to the face, silencing him. "Okay, let's go."

Quietly, they exited the small structure, shadowed their way to the side of the manor, around to the back, and to the door. They'd encountered no more guards, his father secure in his vision of dominance over his community. He tried the handle. It was locked, but that unsurprising. Yeah, the old man felt secure, but that didn't mean he was too lazy to make sure his people kept the doors locked.

The blonde man looked to Vincent, as the other man rummaged in his bag. Within moments, he had a small set of tools in his hands and went to work on the door's lock. Almost as quickly, he turned the handle and ushered the younger man inside.

The rain dripped off of them, forming nice little puddles. Both stood quietly, although Jacin's breaths seemed abnormally loud. Not to mention his heartbeat pounded his ears. But he tried to listen as Vincent did. No motions could be heard. Jacin thought he could hear the distant grandfather clock in the study. Being around four in the morning, the lack of commotion wasn't surprising.

The ex-Turk reorganized his bag in a moment, swung it on a shoulder, and Jacin lead them up the stairs. He flexed his grip on Masamune and realized that his grip slipped abnormally, not only from the rain, but also from his own sweat. His clothes too wet, he switched hands and dried the hand on the wall as he walked up and then switched the sword back to his left hand.

He remembered the first time he'd held the blade. He'd been younger than he was now. Well, Sephiroth had been. He shook his head slightly, unsure anymore if he should bother separating himself from the General of ShinRa's army. But now wasn't the time to contemplate it. His head shook again, trying to force focus.

On the third floor, they exited the stairway through a small door. On the other side, once closed, the doorway concealed itself amongst the geometric patterns of the wallpaper.

The moment the door closed, a slight man walked out of a room a few doors down the hallway. Jacin and Vincent froze, and when the man turned in their direction, probably heading to the bathroom near where they were, the man froze as well. The moment Vincent started forward, Jacin swung his hand up to still him.

A hiss, he whispered, "Don't hurt him. I know him."

The man, who Jacin had known since he was small, who was only a bit older than Jacin, opened his mouth, then darted a gaze around him before he stalked closer to the two intruders. His loose robe billowed, showing he was wearing little or nothing underneath. Memories barging in, Jacin sucked in his breath at the marks marring his legs and chest, some fresh, some quite old, some Jacin had put there himself.

"Jacin, you shouldn't be here. He'll kill you." He reached out a hand that hovered briefly near the blonde man's face before it finally made contact and caressed his cheek. Jacin noticed the instant stiffening of Vincent's body. The other man, oblivious to it, smiled then. "You look so much older. Not that that's a bad thing."

The swordsman gripped the hand with his free hand, holding it, stopping the motions of a thumb, but not pulling it away. He'd missed his friend and occasional lover when they'd dared to be together, although he didn't miss the times they'd been forced together. Aaron looked away then, to the gunman, and the smile fled, probably at Vincent's gritted teeth. Jacin looked between them and caught himself.

"Aaron, this is Vincent Valentine. He's..." He didn't have a clue how to finish that statement without taking too much time they really didn't have.

Then footsteps sounded. Aaron's head jerked, then he gripped Jacin's hand that already held his own. "Come here." The man lead them to the room he'd come from. When they entered, Jacin instantly noticed the man on the bed. Aaron followed his gaze. "Don't worry about him, he's passed out. So is she."

Jacin noticed then the smaller body that laid on the other side of the bed, her hip and fingers, resting on the man's hip, the only things visible.

Vincent growled, "We don't have time for this. Reminisce when it's over."

Jacin frowned at the gunman, suddenly annoyed. He knew Vincent was right, but... But nothing, the man was right.

How were they to proceed? Were they going to shoot the place up? Stalk in and do a stealth kill? The latter didn't really fit into his plans of making his father suffer. And as he thought, he had to acknowledge that he hadn't really told the gunman the truth. The only people that would follow him here were the ones who lived every day in fear. For the most part, the rest, the ones with the guns, saw him as his father did, a whore, not someone who could lead them. It would take a lot to convince some of them otherwise. The others would never let him lead.

"What..." Jacin refocused on Aaron at his voice. "Why are you here?" The man took to shaking his head. "Jacin, you need to get out of here. You can't... Jacin, no.   Not again." The man suddenly looked petrified, probably understanding their intentions. Why else would he come back, after all?

"Jacin," Vincent hissed, the warning clear in his voice.

He looked to the ex-Turk. The expression on his face was terrible. Normally it would have scared the younger man. But now, with what he understood about the other man, he knew Vincent Valentine, the ex-Turk, the father of Sephiroth, one of the saviors of the world, just wanted him safe. His body flushed at the notion.

His father was nothing compared to what this raven-haired man had conquered. Vincent could have already had the job done and been heading home. But he hadn't. He was listening to him, caring about him, trying to please him.

Jacin wanted to kiss him. Every inch of him. He smiled at him and Vincent's growling face faltered. "Whatever happens here, I hope you don't think less of me. But... I kind of lied."

He could almost see the 'not again' in the gunman's eyes.

One strong finger pointed to the man on the bed. "If that man saw me, he'd kill me. He'd kill me whether or not my father dies. This won't stop until they're dead."

Vincent started to shake his head. "It may seem that way, but you don't know that."

"So are we going to interrogate everyone to see what side they're on? They've raped, tortured, and killed people. I think their sense of mercy and reason is a bit off."

"Do you want so many deaths on your hands?" Vincent gripped his shoulder with his claw, the grip painful as if to make a point. "It's not something you can just walk away from and forget about."

He remembered the four men he had killed, their limbs probably peeking out of the boulder of ice by now as it melted in the rain. He remembered their suffering as much as he remembered his own after he'd done it. He knew he'd never forget it. But he also knew he had it inside of himself to ignore their pain as they'd ignored, even enjoyed the pain of the innocents around him.

He also knew Vincent had surely done similar things as a Turk and later on while saving the planet for those who'd apparently not understood that he was trying to do. But he knew without a doubt that the man had never enjoyed slaughtering people, not in the sadistic way his father and his men did.

"No, I'll never forget this, but I'll never forgive myself if I don't put an end to it."

Visually considering the words, Vincent frowned for a moment, but then pulled his hand away, nodding. The man was still cautious however and, as he stood still, Jacin realized he wouldn't make the first move. The man probably still doubted his conviction or, perhaps, was afraid of it.

Aaron touched his other arm, the one holding his sword, shaking his head. "Jacin..." The swordsman pulled away, charging forward. "No! Jacin!"

Despite the force behind them, the words barely rose over a whisper and didn't stop him. He grabbed the man by the arm, yanking him off of the bed. Years ago, he wouldn't have had the strength. Now, he was not only taller, but more built than the man who had abused him. The naked woman on the bed groggily opened her eyes, but she was obviously drunk or drugged or both and couldn't comprehend the nature of the sudden departure of warmth, nor the noise. In one clean motion, he severed the barely awake man's head off and let his chest drop to the floor, stepping out of the way before blood drowned his shoes.

He turned around and took stock of the two men. Broken out of inaction, obviously horrified, Aaron groped for the door and then was out of it, his pounding feet taking off down the hallway. Vincent merely stared at Jacin with a cold expression. He realized how heavy his breaths were, noticed the cold sweat that had rechilled his drying skin. Then the gunman put his bag on the floor, dug inside, and pulled out a silencer, attaching it to the end of a pistol he also pulled out of a case. He stood back up, reshouldered the bag, and waited.

In the back of his mind, Jacin wondered if the other man still saw him the same. Vincent never looked away. Finally, the swordsman walked past him and started at the beginning of the hallway, the two of them taking the rooms one by one, taking out the hallway roamers as well. The whole of it was more or less uneventful but, as his body was left exhausted and his mind and heart dead, he was left wondering how Vincent could have done such a thing more than once. Day after day, in fact, as a Turk.

The sun just started cracking over the horizon by the time he reached his father's room, his final destination. He placed his hand on the door, his heart pounding, suddenly unwilling to enter. He didn't want Vincent to see his father. Vincent knew what the man had done to him and it humiliated him.

His father had done so much, caused so much pain and suffering. It was incomprehensible. The man deserved death. He just had to keep telling himself that.

A hand touched his shoulder and he looked slightly down into Vincent's crimson eyes. The man was so close, but he couldn't gain any warmth from it. Surely the man wanted to ask him if he wanted to stop now. He'd done enough, hadn't he? Let the other man take care of it. All of that, Vincent's stern face said, and more.

"Do you still love me?"

"Yes," Vincent whispered.

The relief he felt at the simple word melted him. It gave him strength.

He tried to turn the handle, but it was locked. Vincent went to work at once. When the door swung open, he didn't want to see inside. But with the rain and clouds gone, the morning sun warmed up the room with its glow and made taking in the details easier.

The man lay on his stomach, covered by a thin sheet that only came to his waist. The man was obviously naked, but he was alone in the bed and in the room. Even from that distance, he was reminded that his father was an attractive man, beauty apparently skipping a couple generations in himself and his grandfather. He could understand his mother becoming infatuated with the man. How long had it taken her to realize he was a monster?

Jacin walked up to him and came to stand next to the bed, crossing his arms as he looked down on him. His stomach did flip flops. His mind screamed at him to do something, kill him, run away, anything. Instead, he spent several minutes watching shallow breaths that slightly moved his chest. Earbuds played music from a nearby player. He could barely hear it, but it sounded peaceful, serene, probably an orchestra. He was tempted to turn the volume way up, just so he could see the man jump.

Instead, he reached under the pillow and took the gun that was hidden there. It was the same gun he'd tried to kill his father with before. Fingers caressed the metal before he turned around and took a seat in the plush chair a few feet from the bed, resting his sword against the side.

The last time he'd held the gun, he'd been filled with panic that eroded all of his sensibilities. This time, he couldn't get his body to react. He felt numb. Maybe he was exhausted. Maybe he just didn't care at that point.

In the distance, Vincent walked over to the couch, put his bag on it, and sat down next to it. Jacin watched him do it, then held the man's gaze for what seemed like an eternity, but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds.

Out of curiosity, he aimed the gun at the sleeping man. It would have been so easy. The man wouldn't have even have known what he'd lost all in one rainy night.

Jacin blew air out of his mouth and dropped his hands into his lap. His head dropped back, but he still looked at the man everyone called Jag. By the end, even he was calling him that, dad, even father seeming too comfortable.

His foot came up and pushed at the side of the bed. The older man stirred but didn't awaken. Undeterred, he pulled back his foot and slammed it. That jolted the sleeping man and he raised himself onto his arms, trying to figure out what was going on.

"Jag," he said, the sound abnormally loud.

The man jerked his head in the direction of the voice. When he saw him and obvious recognition hit, the man pulled the earbuds out, but otherwise laid still, probably also noticing the gun pointed at him. Jacin lifted his head, and looked at the other man with a frown. Sleeping, the man had appeared so innocent. Now, he didn't seem much different.

A strong hand raised the gun into the air. "Is this bothering you?" He threw the gun so hard it slammed against the far wall and clattered to the floor. "Better?"

Jag looked at the gun, then back at his son. Then he grabbed the cell phone on his dresser and hit a speed dial number.

In the background, he heard Vincent shuffling through his clothes, pulling out a vibrating phone, and flipping the phone open. "Hello?"

Wide-eyed, Jag dropped the phone, looking to the man on his couch. Ginger eyes, just like his own, darted back to him. "Jacin, what are you doing here?" He cleared his throat and sat up, trying to keep himself covered. "I was looking for you..."

"Yeah, I noticed."

It was a strange thing seeing his father afraid. Even when he'd shot him, the man had looked royally pissed off, certainly not scared. The man's mouth opened and closed, as if he was trying to figure out if he should scream for help.

"I've killed them all."

Jag blinked at the words, obviously trying to decipher them, to believe them.

"You know, I can't decide how to do this. Maybe you can help me? You're experienced in these matters. What's the most painful way to kill someone?"

The man's mouth opened, but no words came out. Then his head started to shake. "Jacin, if you leave right now, I won't kill you."

"How about impalement? That's got to be painful."

At the words, the man was up and trying to run to the door, naked. Jacin whipped his sword up and stopped him dead in his tracks, the sword at a height that promised decapitation of the man's second head.

"If you try to leave, he'll shoot you in the back. Is that how you want to go?"

At that, instead, the man leapt to the side and dashed for his gun. Jacin was up in a moment, driving Masamune into his back until it came out the other side and then some as he walked closer. The man dropped to his knees, fingering the sword. Jacin kicked the man hard in the back, making him call out and fall forward almost completely off of the sword. He pulled it out the rest of the way, letting the man collapse, then lifted the sword and drove it in again. The blade's sharpness had no problem splitting the wood floorboards so that it could gain entrance.

His father tried to get up, move, anything, but that probably only caused immense pain as the man called out at every violent movement. Blood spread inches, then feet. Jacin stepped back. When Jag ceased his struggles and merely wailed, Jacin could see that the blade had made a good five inch jagged slice towards his hipbone.

Watching him, Jacin felt dead. He watched him until the man no longer moved or twitched. He felt no joy, no pain, nothing. Perhaps he was in denial that it was over, that the man who was supposed to love him was dead.

Vincent shifted, leaning forward, and he jerked his gaze to the gunman. He'd forgotten he was there.

"I..." He looked to his father again. "I loved him. But... but I haven't told him that in years." Tears fell then. He couldn't stop them. He wasn't supposed to regret this. He was supposed to be happy the world was finally free of him. "I forgot that I loved him."

Weak, he fell to his knees. Not even a second later, Vincent was at his side, on his knees as well, holding him, hushing him. The touches felt distant. Maybe he was fainting. Or hyperventilating. Or dying. A hand pulled his face so that he touched foreheads with Vincent, trying to tear his gaze away from the dead man. More hushing. More soft words. He couldn't understand them, but the man's voice sounded so sweet and gave him something to latch onto.

It was a long time before he could make a rational thought. Vincent made him lay on the couch and he just laid there, looking at the dead man, trying to understand it all. The screams soon started, people finding dead bodies on the third floor of the manor. It took him a while to comprehend them, but then, angry with them, he was on his feet, charging to the door. He yelled at them to get the fuck out of his house. Most merely gawked at him, but some took the hint and fled down the stairs.

One brave woman asked, "Is he dead?"

"...Yes."

There was a mix of joy and pain on her face, so much that Jacin had to look away. Whispers drowned him. He slammed the door shut and slid down against it. He didn't worry about police. His father was the police. He didn't worry about any stray men either. They were surely running for their lives, if they had any sense.

Vincent stood a short distance from him, watching him carefully. He could only meet the man's eyes for so long. After a moment, he stood back up, reopened the door, and shouted, "I need someone to clean this shit up." Actually... "I need everyone to get the hell out, now. Get your shit and leave." As an afterthought, he added, knowing he couldn't carry much, "Take anything you want."

That brought some frowning faces, but soon the crowd cleared.

Within minutes, gear and bloody sword in hand, Jacin and his father in a previous life walked down the main staircase and out the front door. The manor was large, beautiful, and utterly expensive. He knew that. But he also knew the misery it represented. He went to the garage and got a couple cans of gasoline. Together, they drenched the floor, curtains, furniture. He cried through it, but it felt good to do so.

Within an hour, everyone was either waiting outside with them or was long gone with a good portion of his father's stuff. He opened the lighter he'd found, lit up his blood-stained t-shirt, and tossed it in the front door. Minutes later, they had to move back as the heat became too intense to be near. He could hear occasional gunshots ringing in the background and could only hope the right people were winning.

Aaron walked up to him, coming to stand by his shoulder to watch the blaze. After a few moments of silence, he looked to Jacin, a strange smile on his face, and handed him a large thick envelope. "That's all of the bank notes, securities, deeds, some cash, everything I could find. Your mom's wedding ring is in there too. He'd kept it in a safe. Johnathan knew the combination." Jacin took the envelope, staring at it as if it wasn't real. "Jacin... Whatever people say, you did a good thing today. The world might not understand, but we do."

Tears fell at the words. "I hope so."

The older man, a few inches shorter than himself, hugged him fiercely, his forehead resting on his cheek. "I mean it."

When his friend released him, coming back to himself, Jacin looked around. A handful of the people were clearly his father's henchmen, but they stood with the others and some had their arms wrapped around their lovers as they watched the fire. He realized Aaron must have saved them, understanding now why certain rooms had been empty when they'd clearly been slept in. Had they been in there, he probably would have murdered them as he'd done the others. That left him with a tight throat, trying to control his renewed sobs. Thank gods they had run into Aaron before the slaughter had begun.

Ginger eyes finally fell on Vincent. The man watched him, had been watching him for who knew how long. He didn't know what to say to him at that point. Nor did he know what to do. They had done something that night that he would never forget about. He knew Vincent wouldn't either. None of them would.

Jacin wiped at his tears, watching the other man back. Why was Vincent just standing there like that? Was he regretting this? Had he horrified him to the point that he no longer loved him? Was he going to leave him now? He'd been reluctant to talk about the future before. Maybe now he was looking for a way out. The thought chilled him. He yanked his gaze away before Vincent saw the extra tears falling.

He had to remember why he'd done it. He'd done it to free himself. Free everyone. He'd done it for good reasons. Not the best ones, nor in the best way, but what more could the world expect of him?

Then, as if an apparition, Vincent was at his side, taking his hand, leading him away from the burning building, out the gate, to the streets. They didn't stop for several minutes. When they came to a door, he looked up. It was an inn. He looked to Vincent questioningly.

"We should sleep. I haven't slept for a good three days."

Jacin blinked, noticing then how pale and exhausted the man looked, and nodded. After Vincent paid for a room, the two of them entered the room, Vincent placing their gear to the side. He pulled him into the bathroom, stripping him and himself.

They showered together, silently scrubbing the grime and blood off. Afterwards, they dried, and Vincent finally led them to the bed.

The gunman urged him under the covers. Jacin almost thought he'd take the other bed, but then the man followed, and laid beside him, pressed against his side. He nuzzled his ear, kissed his throat, and told him to sleep. He didn't want to since the man's touch, his body felt so good. But soon his own body didn't care what his mind wanted and he drifted off into sleep.

  

  

**Chapter 11: The Love That Knew No End**

  

Grudgingly, Vincent opened his eyes, sunlight baking his skin. Then in the next moment, he realized the space next to him was empty and any warmth he might have felt there would have been deceptive. He bolted upright, darting a look around the inn's room. No one was there. He could see no one in the bathroom. Jacin was gone.

Long legs swung off of the bed. He scrubbed his eyes, trying to work the haze out of them, out of his mind. Outside, it looked like early afternoon. It wasn't enough sleep, but he could manage. He didn't think he could go back to sleep anyway even if he'd wanted to.

Where was Jacin? Had he left him after all? Perhaps he'd just gone to get something to eat, or some other innocent activity.

He looked around again, trying to find some indication of where Jacin had gone. There was no note. Nothing.

He didn't want to jump to conclusions, but the absence of the other man deadened his heart far more than he'd thought it could. Earlier, he'd been questioning if he himself should stay. He'd thought, in Jacin's best interest, he should have left. But he couldn't leave when the man was clearly in so much pain.

...Not that he truly wanted to leave. It was selfish, absurd, detestable now that his purpose for being there was gone, but he couldn't stop wanting be near him.

But still, he'd never wanted to push away Lucrecia either, yet he had.

So what was different now?

Maybe he was just tired of being alone. Sure, he'd let his friends back into his life, but he never let them in, not completely, not when he knew they had their own lives to worry about. And, of course, one day they would be gone no matter what he did to try to save them.

Raven locks fluttered as he shook his head. Perhaps it was the guilt, the regret, the need to save this man. But he'd saved him, hadn't he? Wasn't his obligation, as dictated by Lucrecia, done now?

He should have walked away. He should have, to save both Jacin and himself from any more misery.

But he couldn't force himself to move from the bed.

Wait, Masamune. Surely the other man wouldn't leave without it. He stood up, naked, peering around the bed to the wall. The sword laid there, clean of blood, unclaimed. He plopped back down. No, it didn't really mean anything that it was there. The other man could have abandoned it after everything that had happened earlier. He'd burnt his whole damn house down to smoldering ashes, probably to forget, to be rid of the past, so leaving the weapon wasn't entirely out of the question.

Vincent sat there until nature forced him to the bathroom. He was about to sit back down, to continue his wait, but decided he was wasting time. Instead, he pulled a new set of clothes out of his bag, dressed, grabbed his gear and Masamune, and headed outside.

The evening began to steal the light away from the day. That didn't stop the people from roaming the streets. The people who noticed him didn't really pay attention this time around. Perhaps daylight made a difference, but he could also tell, as a whole, their disposition was, well, filled with new purpose.

It was then that he caught Jacin watching him from across the street. Months before, the man had run from him. This time, Jacin watched him for a moment, then walked across the street, and came to stand in front of him.

Jacin wore new clothes: jeans and a dark blue shirt that hugged his well-muscled chest. On his shoulder, he carried a backpack.

Looking at him, he wanted to reach out and touch him, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, their relationship too unsure, he himself too unsure.

Then the man reached behind himself and pulled around Vincent's gun that he'd tucked at the small of his back, handing it to him. "Here. Sorry for taking it. I wasn't sure how safe the streets would be. Yeah, I'm a shitty shot, but it's better than nothing. The sword seemed a bit too obvious. But I managed to buy a belt for the thing, so at least I don't have to hold it all the time." Jacin frowned at him. "What's wrong?"

Vincent blinked and tried to wipe the all too serious look off of his face. But it was too late. Jacin had apparently already lost most of the energy needed to continue the conversation, as he took stock of the gunman, his frown only increasing.

"Are you leaving?"

Vincent had known the question was coming but it still somehow managed to catch him off guard. He looked away, unable to keep eye contact.

"Vincent..."

He should walk away. He should run. He knew he should. He was almost positive he would have had Jacin's hand not suddenly gripped his arm.

"Vincent, don't go... Please."

"Jacin, you don't need me anymore. You have people that care about you here." He'd tried, but failed to forget the other man's caress on Jacin's cheek, from the night before, the one Jacin hadn't pulled away from. "You don't need me to fuck it up. And I will fuck it up somehow. I always do."

"You're talking to me like I'm a saint or something. And this isn't about needing. I want you to stay. Or, or I can go back with you. I gave everything to them, the deeds, everything. Well, except for some cash and my mother's ring." Jacin caressed his chest and Vincent realized the man was wearing it on a chain that was mostly hidden by his shirt. "Just..."

"This isn't right. We weren't meant to be together. Lucrecia is the only reason we've even spoken." His conviction faulted as the younger man looked near tears. "Jacin, we just shouldn't be together."

"We shouldn't or you don't want to be?"

Vincent flushed as his mind struggled with the words. He should have slammed the man's feelings down, shattered them, and freed him from a relationship that was doomed to be miserable.

When the gunman couldn't find words, Jacin continued, "I don't believe for a second that you don't want to. I know you want him."

The words took him back. His head started shaking. "Jacin, I barely even think about him anymore. This last year... It just doesn't matter like it used to. I mean, when you came to my apartment a few days ago, I wasn't prepared for it. It... It just reopened old wounds."

"So, what are you saying?" Jacin's hand finally dropped from his own chest. "This is over?"

"I'm saying... It can be."

"But do you want it to be?"

Vincent looked away, at the people, the buildings, the sky, anything. End it. End it. End it. "Jacin..."

"If we end up hating each other, we can always walk away. Nothing says we're bound together." Jacin stepped forward and touched his cheek. "You know, if you'd died too twenty years ago, we might have still met. We might have loved each other. And this wouldn't have been so complicated. You don't know... Another ten or whatever years from now, we might have met. Maybe sooner. It wasn't all just her. There was always the chance. And then you wouldn't have had this excuse." The hand gripped his chin. "Or just... Just be with me for a while. You... You're my strength right now. I wish it wasn't that way, but... Please just stay with me for a while at least."

Vincent had to bite down on the feelings of guilt of what he'd let happen, of what he'd helped do, of the pain he'd caused over far too many years. He looked the other man in the eye. He wished he could take this man's pain away.

But he couldn't even take his own away. Cover it up, maybe, but it never truly went away. Perhaps... that was because he never let it go away.

Jacin watched him, obviously trying to read his mind. It made him smile which Jacin couldn't help but return with a small one of his own. "What?"

Vincent gripped the hand still cupping his cheek and brought it to their sides, but didn't let go, looking down to make the admission easier. "Before, I never let it go, the past, my regrets. It was all I had. All I'd let myself have. It was safer, easier that way. They were my strength. But... It made life not worth living at the same time."

"But... But you never tried very hard," Jacin asked, repeating Vincent's words from hours ago.

He knew then that the other man understood his cryptic message about his suicide attempts. "No, I guess not."

Jacin's other hand gripped the gunman's jaw again, forcing his head up. They stood that way until Vincent couldn't help but make eye contact. Jacin smiled. "Well, for whatever it's worth, I forgive you. You don't have to regret it anymore." The younger man's head bent down slightly and he bushed his lips over Vincent's, and his heart raced at the simple gesture. "Just... please don't leave me."

The man's words were so tempting to believe, to trust in, and a small, but budding part did because he knew the man meant them. Yes, one day, they might have met, they might have been together, but without Sephiroth's understanding and  forgiveness, the relationship would have been hell for a long, long time, if Vincent had even allowed it to happen at all. Maybe Jacin would have had the strength for it. Maybe not. In the end, he could only be glad he'd had the chance to be with him.

Vincent leaned forward slightly, the man still close, and kissed him, slowly, with his heart as much as with his body. Quickly, Jacin deepened it.

When the gunman pulled away, both men were panting. "I think... I think maybe we should just..."

Jacin pushed forward, but Vincent pulled back. "Just what?"

"We should calm this down for a while."

Jacin's instant frown eroded Vincent's sensibilities, but at the same time, made him more determined.

"Why? You're still worried about..."

"I don't know. I need time...   To think about this.   So do you."

"Okay?" Jacin pulled away, reluctant, pain and discomfort showing on his face.

"But... If you want, I'd like you to come back with me."

The sudden brightening of Jacin's face left him breathless. "I would love to."

After a phone call on the stolen cell phone to Cloud and Barret, a couple days later, back in his apartment, he watched Jacin pet the hairball on his lap. The length of his body spread out on the couch, the place he'd slept the night before. He was shirtless, but had on a pair of loose sweatpants on that hung low on his hips and Vincent was dressed the same, except in jeans. The man had passed out there the evening before and he'd let him sleep. They'd both needed the sleep.

He didn't know why he  still tried to hold the other man back, well, he knew why: for rationality's and morality's sakes.   But the force of will required to keep Jacin's advances at bay only exhausted him completely.   Because he really didn't want to keep him away.   But it was the right thing to do.   Right?

Now, watching Jacin and his careless caresses, it seemed like a waste of time to deny either of them what they both wanted.

In the end though, the gunman merely walked away from the bedroom and took a seat in the plush chair next to the couch.

Still caressing the cat, Jacin was facing away from him, so he couldn't see the expression on his face when he murmured, "Good morning."

Vincent let out a small puff of laughter. That was strange to hear from someone in his own apartment. "Good morning."

The blonde-haired man's head tilted back until it rested on the armrest, elongating his neck, making Vincent want to bite it. Then he rolled his head to the side so that he could look at the older man. He eyed him for what felt like far too long, Vincent trying to not fidget under the gaze. "You know, you never answered me before."

"Hm?"

"About what you'd do."

The ex-Turk frowned, not understanding what the man was getting at. Then Jacin was standing up, the cat prancing away, and coming to stand in front of him. The man's groin more or less right at eye level, the hardness there proved impossible to miss. Then Jacin straddled him.

"What would you do if I did this?" His hands wrapped around and under Vincent's backside, forcing his hips forward, against him. Instead of pushing at the man's chest again, this time, he pulled the other man to him, kissing him, licking him, biting the offered neck and shoulders. Panting, the man hissed at a bite, and said, "So what would you do?"

As if Jacin didn't know. "I would fuck you so hard you'd still be feeling it when I take you again and again."

The younger man grinned. "I want that. I don't ever want to forget the way your cock fits in me."

The words drove the older man crazy. Vincent pushed him back, opening up the zipper on his pants, pulling out his erection none too gently, while Jacin stood and yanked his pants off, releasing the hardness there. The gunman opened the drawer in the side table between the couch and chair, pulling out some lube, stuff he normally used on himself when the urge hit.

Putting his hand on the back of the chair, Jacin straddled him again, but then lifted a leg onto the armrest, giving him better access, as he poured the slippery stuff onto his fingers. The sight of him, his hard cock so close to his face, made his own cock ache. He reached around and found the man's entrance, fingering it with slow circles, and sucked on the tip of the cock so close to him.

Jacin groaned at the double assault, his hips jerking slightly, despite the tension in his body. He probably couldn't help it and that made Vincent all the more hungry for him. He grabbed the man's ass cheek with his claw, spreading him further, forcing the younger man to fuck his face. The encouragement was only needed for a couple of seconds before he started pumping his own hips. Vincent pushed one, then two, and moments later, three fingers. Jacin hips moved quicker, greedily pushing the gunman's fingers into his hole and forcing more of his cock into his lover's mouth.

"Gods, fuck it harder!"

Vincent shoved his fingers in and out, Jacin's breaths and moans growing hoarse. His skin broke with a sweat. Then the younger man jerked his hips back, pulling his cock out of Vincent's mouth and fingers out of his ass. His hand pulled down on his scrotum, trying to stop himself from coming. The gunman was a bit disappointed when he succeeded.

The older man urged his lover's leg down, then pushed him back so that he was standing. Jacin whimpered at him with confusion and disappointment. He didn't make the man suffer long as he stood up and urged him to lay down onto of the broad antique wooden coffee table. He put the man's long legs onto his shoulders, positioning himself, rubbing his cock around the man's hole, dipping it in slightly, making the other man squirm. It was all he could do to not drive in.

Jacin's breaths came as pants as he watched him with lidded eyes. When Vincent didn't move quickly enough, he tried to force his hips up to take in more, but Vincent gripped his hips and waist, stilling him.

The man groaned. "Vincent, please, I want you in me so badly. Fuck me hard. Make me feel it."

As tempting as the words were, instead, he slowly worked his cock into Jacin. He could abuse him later, would have loved to do it, but right now, he wanted to know every inch inside of him. To know the way his ass gripped him with each of Jacin's forcibly restrained thrusts, trying to milk him. To see Jacin flushed with desire for him.

When the whole length of his cock was buried, he released a breath, pulling out, then pushing back in with a gentleness he didn't feel. Jacin whimpered, begged for more, for him to be harder, harsher. So much that he couldn't force himself to hold back any longer, not with the other man sounding like that. He released Jacin's hips and instead put his hands on either side of him. The moment the younger man's hips were released, he thrust at the length inside him, quickening the pace on his own.

"Fucking hell," Vincent breathed, but Jacin didn't stop, and the older man  couldn't stop himself from meeting the thrusts.

Jacin reached between his own legs and pumped his stiff cock with near abandon.   Jacin's trembling breaths and moans, playing perfectly with the thrusts, made him want to kiss that mouth. In a single motion, he pushed Jacin's legs off of his shoulders, grabbed under the man's back and pulled him up to sit on his lap. He captured Jacin's mouth, kissing him deeply.

Then, against his lips, Vincent hissed, "Fuck it how you want to. It's yours."

That broke through the flushed haze on Jacin's face and the younger man smiled. "My ass is yours, my mouth, every part of me," he purred as he stood up, moving off of the table, and grabbed Vincent's hand, pulling him towards the bedroom. He laid him down, then straddled him, putting the older man's erection into him in the motion. He gripped the base, keeping it steady, his back arching with his arm's position, then bobbed up and down on it until the motions grew heated and it was all Vincent could do to not come.

Vincent gripped the cock dangling in front of him, wishing he could suck on it instead, and pumped it as quickly as Jacin pounded on his groin.   His touch quickly brought Jacin to tremble, then come over Vincent's hand and chest, with loud calls that pulsed in the bedroom loud enough to let the neighbors know what they were doing. Temporarily spent, Jacin stopped his motions, still trembling, his breaths shaky.

Unable to be patient, Vincent gripped the man's hips and pounded into him, quickly coming inside of him, making the man's hole so slick.

Minutes later, Jacin still mounted on him, their breathing under control, Jacin smiled down at him with a silly grin. "See, that wasn't so bad." He bent down and laid kisses over his chest, nipping at his nipples, making him reharden inside of his body.

Vincent couldn't help grinning back. Jacin shifted forward, his hands coming down next to the sides of the gunman's shoulders.

Then the younger man's grin turned into a thoughtful smile as his hand lifted off of the bed to weave through long raven locks, brushing them off of Vincent's face and neck. "Will you always look this way? You barely look older than me."

Taken back a bit, rational thought coming forth, he frowned and said, "Yes, more or less. I am aging, but it's much slower than a normal person. And I'm not sure if I could ever truly die without some divine intervention or a decapitation."

Jacin frowned with a smirk. "How old are you then? I'm twenty-one... Sephiroth was around thirty. And you had to be old enough to have a kid and be a Turk at the same time..."

The gunman huffed a bit of laughter at the personal question, realizing they'd never really talked about it, about a lot of things for that matter, despite what they'd been through together. "Do you want the truth?"

The younger man's lips pursed. "Yeah."

"I'm 78, minus 10 or 20 years." He expected some kind of joke, an insult, maybe even some disgust. He didn't expect the man to withdraw into himself. He reached up and put blonde locks behind an ear. "What's wrong?"

Jacin bit his lower lip, looking away, but then he looked back, his expression grave. "When I die, you'll find me again?"

Vincent's chest tightened at the words, but he nonetheless promised, truthful, "I'll never stop trying to find you."

The other man's smile was slow, but soon Vincent felt as if he was being warmed by the sun. Jacin bent down to kiss him and he felt Jacin's love in that kiss. He knew, to the end of his existence, he'd search for this man's love again and again.

His love for him knew no end.


End file.
